


The Arrangement

by katiac



Category: The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 140,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiac/pseuds/katiac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Philizabeth-centric look at missed moments from the first season episodes and the complicated history that got them there. An exploration of Philip and Elizabeth both as a couple and as individuals starting from their earliest days together as partners, the formation of their family, and through to the tumultuous events of Season One.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The Americans. Some dialogue taken from episodes. No copyright infringement intended. Adult situations, including Elizabeth's rape.

She left Smolensk on a clear November morning so brilliantly cold the first rush of air reached in to seize her chest in an invisible fist. A hard, gusting wind whipped the edges of her scarf against both cheeks, dogged in sifting through thinned patches in a dark wool sweater. Lifting her chin in a gesture as much appreciation as defiance, she drew a deep breath, letting the bite of it wash over her face and clear her head, the cold of the approaching Russian winter strong, invigorating.

Two pairs of boots crunched side by side in the snow, their twin tracks lost in the steps of countless others who had come by already that morning. As a child, she’d liked to match up their feet as they stood in line for bread or made the walk home together from school. Never to be rushed, her mother carefully led the way through crowded city streets, steering her around oily puddles and patches of thick mud that could’ve soiled a pair of shoes long saved for, the unhurried precision with which she chose each step exuding a quiet, steadying strength.

They reached the train station with ten minutes to spare, stepping inside the full waiting area only long enough to get warm. Cheeks and noses tipped with red, they ventured back out to the concrete boarding platform, finding a seat close together on a narrow bench. It was there, staring silently out at miles of empty tracks and barbed wire fencing, that after a moment, her mother reached for her hand.

There was no need for words, nor justification for tears, the mutual clasp of pale, icy fingers confirming everything that would never be said. That to them she might be one of the most promising candidates in a new class of cadets, exemplary marks on their series of entrance exams and the highest recommendation of the local party committee earning her selection to the prestigious leadership program. That having just turned seventeen she would leave home forever to be trained as an officer in the KGB, assigned to carry out the most dangerous and vital missions in defense of their country. That one day she would be sent far away to places one couldn’t ask and the other never reveal, any intermittent contact they might be allowed once her training began potentially their last.

That none of it would ever change the way _she_ saw her, in her eyes always and only, her _Nadya_.

The train whistle sounded in the distance. Her mother squeezed her fingers, for a long moment not moving. Nadezhda rose from the bench first, picking up the single bag containing her clothes and personal things. Swallowing, her mother followed, smoothing a wrinkle in her collar before reaching up to touch her cheek.

Eyes beginning to burn, she squinted them shut, fighting to still a sudden trembling in her chin as the train that would take her east to Moscow and a waiting connection to Gryazi thundered up to the platform.

_“Ya tebya lyublyu,”_ her mother whispered, pulling her close for one final, crushing hug.

_I love you._

Straightening, she wiped both their cheeks and gestured towards the train.

“Go.”

Their eyes locked for one final second. Nadezhda lifted her chin and turned, quickly digging into the bag for her papers. She didn’t look back, didn’t risk that tears might spill weak and cowardly down her cheeks if she glimpsed her mother standing alone by the bench. Taking a long, cold breath to clear her head, she crossed the platform and handed the guard her orders, chin steadied by the time she boarded the train.

 

* * *

 

“That’s the second time now.” Not moving, Philip peered from behind the edge of the drapes. “He’s going back in. You got the trunk clean?”

“Yeah.”

The answer curt as it was laced with quiet concern, Elizabeth flicked off the lamp, bare feet making no sound on the wood floor as she crept to his side at the window. Finding his arm in the dark, she steered him out of the way to see for herself. He grunted but acquiesced, letting her fingers replace his on the curtain. Edging it a hair to the left, she stayed carefully in the shadows, watching for any sign of movement from the house across the street.

“And the wall?”

The whisper came just behind her ear, a hint of vodka still lingering on his breath. He leaned over her shoulder for another look. Releasing the curtain, she shook her head.

“It’s dry, but barely.” She crossed her arms and paced to the far side of the room. “I stacked some boxes in front of the patch, put a coat of paint on Henry’s old birdhouse to cover the smell, but it’s not going to be enough if he looks closely.”

Brushing past her, Philip strode to the closet and pulled out a pair of jeans. “Yeah, well he’s onto something. I give him fifteen minutes, tops.”

She paused at the foot of their bed, staring at his back while he dressed. “What exactly are you planning to do?”

He zipped his fly, not meeting her eyes. “Hopefully nothing.”

Grabbing his arm when he tried to get by, she stepped between him and the door.

“Philip, if he goes in there--”

“What is it you want me to do?” he shot back in a whisper, their faces inches apart. Lowering his head, after a moment he looked up. “An FBI agent goes missing outside his own house and the Feds’ll be crawling all over us by morning. Only chance of coming out of this clean is if he checks us out, decides on his own it was nothing but a dumb coincidence.”

Barely breathing, Elizabeth stared back at him.

“We let him do it.” Nodding slowly to herself, she rubbed her bottom lip. “Let him search the garage, look over the car--”

“Yeah.” Philip nudged her out of the way, digging for his shoes. “Let him poke around a little. Get a read on his reaction.”

She tapped fingers against the bedframe.

“And if he smells the ammonia?”

Neither moved. Sighing, Philip turned to face her, voice low. “Then we’re finished here. We pack up the kids, leave before anyone has time to realize he’s gone.”

She stared back at him, jaw set. “We can’t let it come to that.”

He didn’t answer, just moved around her, holding her gaze a second longer than necessary before slipping from the room.

Frowning, she watched him go, after a moment snatching her robe off the foot of the bed and sliding a chair over to the window to wait. Careful to stay behind the wall, she eased the curtain back half a centimeter.

_Nothing._

She rubbed her face, closing her eyes just long enough for the burning to fade. For all the orders they’d carried out in the dead hours of the night, there was no cure for missing two straight days of sleep, all the pots of coffee in the world unable to stave off debilitating grogginess and impairment. Hands began to shake. Aim strayed a fraction of an inch off center, judgment slowing just enough to allow the one critical error that would spell their end.

Exhaling, Elizabeth checked the window again and slumped back in the chair, fingers tapping nervously.

_And yet somehow they would figure it out, just as they always had._

Swallowing, she looked down at her hand, still able to feel the memory of his fingers laced with hers.

From the start, their assignment together had seemed the most ill-conceived of matches, his approach to things as inviting of scrutiny as hers was cleanly by the Centre’s instruction. Clashing at every turn, a partnership that was uncomfortable at best grew further strained once disagreements over mission parameters spread to his wasteful weekend indulgence of waxing the dark blue Pontiac they’d leased from a local dealer and casual suggestions they go out in the evenings for pizza, to the movies, or the mall under the guise of blending in, the latter delivered with a general lack of discomfort which could only be termed suspect. Forced to spend every waking moment together, the idea of sharing his bed served only to add insult to injury.

It was necessary, of course. Training had been thorough as it was absolute, careless slip-ups unallowable. Coached in everything from what brand of peanut butter to buy to how they should decorate their living room in an unremarkable American way, the Centre left nothing to chance.

Their final months were spent in one of a long line of houses built on strange, empty blocks far from the nearest town, oddly constructed streets with foreign signs protected from casual view by miles of barbed wire. They rehearsed the act down to the most trivial of details until conversations became choreographed as a dance. Seated together on an uncomfortable, itchy sofa, they practiced just how he’d reach for her hand in a touching moment, the way she’d smile adoringly when he spoke. How she would lean in a little when he slipped an arm around her waist, flushing as if the idea of being drawn closer by her husband couldn’t help but invite an innocent burst of color to her cheeks, the miserable way her skin began to crawl the moment his hand made contact pushed down where no one could see. Knowing looks were sure to be exchanged at such an obvious pair of newlyweds, but their story wouldn’t be questioned.

_No one would suspect it was all a lie._

But even as part of the act, there was something far too intimate about sleeping beside him, what would inevitably follow never far from her mind. Careful to leave no room for doubt the first night, she gingerly slipped under the covers and balanced herself at the bed’s very edge. Arms curled protectively across her chest, she didn’t move an inch, stomach knotting tighter with Philip’s every movement on the far side of the mattress.

They lay in the dark in a room that had yet to feel familiar, in an apartment someone else had chosen for them, night after night for the first months, saying nothing, the heat radiating from his back when the covers shifted the only reminder he was still there, silently waiting for the day they both knew had to come.

It was a dictated part of their cover, orders spelled out in no uncertain terms before they left Moscow. She’d nodded without flinching, as had Philip, the task far more straightforward in the abstract than when they were finally alone together in a bed halfway across the world. Silently alarmed to note he seemed less bothered by the idea than she would’ve preferred, she refused to so much as loosen her robe before the lights were off, careful not to give any sign of encouragement.

He was . . . different than she’d pictured, something she couldn’t quite put a finger on unsettling from the start. Shifty. Soft. Weak in principle. Capable as a partner, but too easily distracted by the trappings of their cover life. Far less focused than she would’ve preferred, he was as dogged in attempts to get her to laugh with an empty American smile as she was in ignoring his endless litany of jokes. And as they ate dinner in silence each night in an empty kitchen, she couldn’t deny something else was absent. A quality difficult to pin down, it was no less obvious he lacked it, every awkward interaction and stilted exchange seeming only to illustrate more plainly they were miles apart. The door to their bedroom shut night after night, uneasiness turning to the cold ache of dread. Despite the distance he’d maintained, she knew from looks that lingered too long he’d thought about it, perhaps even pictured it. Looked forward to the day she’d be required by the Centre to let him use her for sexual release.

Putting it off as long as possible, she was finally forced to relent. It was a passionless act. Eyes tightly shut, she didn’t move a muscle until Philip finished thrusting, determined not to allow him an ounce of satisfaction in thinking she might’ve enjoyed it. He exhaled against her neck in a rush, pausing between her legs just long enough for a fleeting twitch to pass from his body to hers before withdrawing, her missed period a silent warning they’d soon have gone too far ever to turn back.

 

* * *

 

In the blink of an eye, fifteen years passed.

Paige took her first steps, and a few years later, Henry. There were school plays and hockey games to attend. Lunches to be made and hair to comb. All of it a ruse, their mission and true identities concealed by a carefully constructed web of lies. And slowly but surely, two lives meshed into one.

Much of it was inconsequential. A preference for eggs over pancakes or the irksome habit of forgetting to cap the toothpaste. The scent of his skin after a hot shower. A thousand seemingly trivial details woven together by time until they were irrevocably intertwined, tangled like the roots of a mighty oak.

After a decade and a half, words, once so difficult to find, were no longer needed, a glance across a crowded room or subtle tightening at the corner of a mouth she could’ve drawn from memory conveying more information than all the books in the world ever could. She finished his sentences as often as he did, no longer bothered to wait outside the bathroom door with her toothbrush while he showered in the morning. Boundaries once impenetrable had faded one by one as months grew to years, the idea of worrying over him seeing her in her nightgown pointless when they’d been up half the night nursing Henry through yet another earache.

_And still, they were in some ways, absolute strangers._

Nobody would’ve guessed it to see them together, not even the children they’d raised. But the weight of the arrangement that had for fifteen years gone undiscussed lingered at times when they were alone, something in the way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking, unnerving. Rebuffing him had become second nature, a cold look or sharply turned shoulder a silent reminder he would be allowed no closer than she deemed necessary, partners and parents, but never anything more.

On edge and unable to sleep, she stayed up until he got back from Martha’s, knees propped under the covers and remote in hand, Reagan’s half-crazed grin plastered across the nightly news doing little to ease the tension. Checking down the hall towards the kids’ rooms, Philip closed the door and carefully raised the volume on the TV set.

“So . . . FBI have the car description with the D.C. plates. They haven’t connected it to a stabbing victim at Arlington Methodist yet, but,” sighing, he sat down, “I don’t think it’ll be long. They’re all over our guys at the embassy. Must’ve made the surveillance which is why they can’t get out to pick up my message or respond.” He turned to set his wallet on the dresser. “So I think we have to assume with the Feds all over them like that, they’re on full operational stand-down.”

Making a face, he unclasped his watch and dropped it next to his wallet. She stared down at the remote for a few seconds, thumb rubbing nervously against its edge.

“We should just take care of him ourselves.”

Waiting a moment, she glanced up at him, not missing the slight tightening in the space between his eyebrows.

“What’s the rush?”

Half asked as a joke, there was an undercurrent to the question that set her on edge. She frowned, gesturing with one hand.

“In an operational stand-down we’re authorized to make our own decisions.”

Philip hesitated, brow creasing noticeably. “Yes . . . but, why do you want to kill him so badly?”

He didn’t move, just stared back at her. Silently acknowledging the slip, she lifted her chin and laced her voice with disdain.

“I want him out of my _house_. He’s putting us all in danger and they’re just going to kill him back in Moscow anyway.” Shooting him an irritated look, she pushed her hair behind one ear and turned back towards the TV.

Philip shook his head and got up. “I think we should at least try and finish the mission the way it was assigned.”

The act of breathing more intensive by the second, she glared. “ _Now_ you want to complete the mission the way it was assigned? You should’ve thought of that before, Philip. He shouldn’t even be here.”

Relief was short-lived. Much to her annoyance, he wandered over to her side of the bed and took a seat, casually propping an arm across her lap as if there were any chance she might enjoy having him so close.

“Well if you’re _that_ worried about it maybe we could just defect ourselves.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly intent on trying out material for one of the comedy clubs downtown. “Least we’d be millionaires, hmm?”

Setting her jaw, she looked down. He continued straight-faced, treating her obvious disapproval as an invitation to try harder.

“Wouldn’t have to worry about going to jail, leaving the kids all alone.” Winking, he flashed her a grin. “Lotta our problems would just go away, poof.”

She stared at him, not smiling. “That’s very funny.”

Studying her face for a moment, he gave her another oddly quizzical look, finally nodding. “Well let’s see what we hear tomorrow.”

Satisfied, she snapped off the television and rolled away without bothering to look at him, claiming a silent victory when he awkwardly removed his arm. He undressed without offering any more attempts at humor, the water running in the bathroom as she stared blankly ahead, trying to steady her breathing.

The light snapped off. Yawning, he pulled back the covers, the bed jostling briefly as he climbed into it. Elizabeth closed her eyes, teeth gritted as his butt inched across the invisible line running down the middle of their mattress.

“You’re on my side.”

“Huh?” Already half-asleep, he grunted it.

Forced to listen to him snoring practically seconds later, Elizabeth clenched one hand into a fist, annoyance balling tighter in her chest. She lay awake long after his breathing slowed, a face she hadn’t pictured in years forcing itself up from the depths of her mind.

Heart soaring with patriotism, she’d pledged her life to the Motherland at age seventeen, eager to serve, if unprepared for what the process would entail. Training was rigorous, at times brutal. Language classes for six hours a day, the words drilled into her head over and over until she began to dream in English, marksmanship and munitions, surveillance, hand to hand combat . . . and still, she couldn’t get enough, only wanted to soak it up faster.

For what she lacked in size she more than made up in raw devotion, studying grammatical structures well after lights were supposed to be out in the dormitory and staying late at the gym to perfect every technique they were taught. And when she stayed, so would Yuri.

Her favorite of their trainers, he was tall and fair-haired with strong Slavic features. For months they sparred long after the others left, the two of them alone in the dimly-lit training facility. They’d not dared so much as hint at such a thing aloud, but she could tell from the way he watched her when they stopped for water that he found her pretty. And when he grinned and praised her every small victory, she couldn’t help but notice the unexpected tickle in her stomach, the man assigned to train her to kill with her bare hands the closest thing she’d ever pictured to a boyfriend.

Looking back at it later only shamed her, a humiliating reminder of how naïve she’d been not to question the look that crossed Yuri’s face the moment he stepped aside, retreating to the training office in back of the gym to leave her alone for a personal lesson with his superior. She’d heard of Nikolai Timoshev, of course. They all had, his successes in the field unmatched. Confident in her abilities, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride at such an honor, wondering if Yuri had mentioned her progress, perhaps even written up a letter of commendation for her file, singled her out among her classmates for special attention.

The first blow caught her off guard. The air knocked out of her chest, it was when a second punch doubled her over with seemingly little effort that she recognized Yuri had indulged her pride, gone easy on her all along in the hopes of gaining her favor. Choking and unable to catch her breath for the pain, it was a lesson sorely learned as she was pushed to the floor, a wrist twisted up behind her back.

She knew she was beaten. They’d been taught holds. Blocks. Pressure points. How to subdue an opponent. Ashamed to have been overpowered so easily in the first round, she kicked the mat, pride screaming for a second chance. But to her shock, the captain didn’t release her, instead got on top of her and ripped down her pants.

Her stomach convulsed. She thrashed in vain, kicking at him with the only leg she could still move until it was smashed under his knee. Cheek pressed to the cold floor of the gym, time slowed, seconds stretching cruelly out as it began. Pain came first. Fear. Fury. Shame and a sense of violation so all-encompassing she could barely keep from vomiting. Everything they’d been drilled in--to maintain control, to show no sign of weakness--lost to her, she grunted a wretched, disgusting animal sound and twisted her head up, silently begging Yuri to help her, the fleeting glimmer of hope that swelled in her chest at the thought he might save her all the more crushing when he turned and walked away.

Humiliated once it was over, she didn’t move, lying motionless on the floor until the gym was long empty. She clawed to cover herself, curling into a tiny ball, mouth open and breath coming in silent, shallow pants. Days passed without her notice. Stone-faced, she moved through training in a fog. They never spoke a word of it after that, nor would she deign to look into Yuri’s face, hating herself all the more for having been so wrong.

Weeks turned to months. Resolving from that moment forth never to be so weak again, she pushed it down to the back of her mind, steeled herself with the knowledge that none of it mattered, not compared to what they were fighting for. And as the years passed, so had the searing anger, hardening into a cold shield so thick no one could ever get to her again.

 

* * *

 

“Mmm, looks like Mom made _pancakes_.”

Batting Henry on the back of the head with the newspaper, Philip dropped it on the table and went straight for the coffee, yawning as if the act of strolling out to the driveway while she cooked represented absolute teamwork. Elizabeth frowned and stirred the eggs, glancing over one shoulder to where a pajama-clad Henry had pounced on the comics.

“Henry, set the table.”

Face falling, he slumped in his chair.

_“Mom.”_

She gritted her teeth at the whine, pushing down the thought of what her own mother would’ve done if she’d ever made such a sound over being asked to put out a few utensils. Shooting Philip a dark look, she shook her head and grabbed a clean plate for the eggs.

“I’ll do it.” He slurped down a gulp of coffee and rose from the table, ruffling Henry’s hair.

“Thanks, Dad,” he mouthed under his breath, flashing a grateful smile.

Elizabeth set her jaw, but didn’t answer, spatula slashing quietly through a pan of sunny yellow eggs. Breakfast made it to the table without too large a commotion, Philip finally prying the funnies from Henry’s grip with the promise he could have them back after a pancake and three bites of eggs.

_Not if he helped clear the dishes. Not for taking the trash out to the can in the backyard as he hadn’t done after dinner for two straight nights. For eating._

She smoothed a napkin across her lap, noting only when she reached for her fork that she’d been given two spoons and a knife. Paige clapped a hand over her mouth too late to hide a giggle, the likely culprit identified when he shot her a wink to silence it. Taking another swallow of coffee, Philip glanced her way, straight-faced.

Hand resting motionless on the table, she ignored him, incensed in watching Henry use his pair of forks like a steam shovel to scoop up eggs. Having already cut the pancakes she’d cooked into small rectangles to build a castle as if they were multicolored plastic pieces from his bin of Legos, he’d flooded the plate in a wasteful, sugary moat of maple syrup. She stared at the mess in silence, face frozen as she rose from the table to get herself a fork.

“Here, buddy, gimme the syrup.”

Having finally come to the conclusion she was pissed, Philip reached across the table to rescue the syrup bottle, licking the top of it like he knew she hated before replacing the cap. They chewed in silence. Tapping her fork against an untouched plate, Paige glanced hesitantly in her direction and then turned to her father.

“Are we still going to the mall later?”

“Mm-hmm.”

The only one making an enthusiastic attempt at breakfast, Philip nodded through a mouthful of pancakes. He swallowed and looked her way, winking again.

“You wanna come?”

“No.”

She took a bite of eggs and wiped her mouth, frowning as she watched Paige push wasted food around her plate, having barely eaten a thing. Deciding against breakfast as many days as not, she ate like a picky, pampered little bird who’d lived its life warm and spoiled in a gilded cage, having never known what it was like not to have enough.

And then after they finished poking at the breakfast she’d prepared, he would take them both to _the mall_ , let them whine and beg for clothes and stupid plastic trinkets she’d find littered on the stairs, come home with a noisy cellophane bag of comic books for Henry or another pair of legwarmers Paige didn’t need and would wrinkle her nose at after a week, declaring them the wrong color. This, after she and her mother had carefully saved for months when the time came that she’d finally outgrown her only shoes, _valenki_ , pressed felt slippers that would be purchased several sizes too big and carefully cleaned and mended for years until her foot could no longer be forced in, toes squeezed into a knobby row of bumps.

“You sure?” Voice taking on a familiar note of humor, Philip propped both arms on the table, cheek starting to pull into a grin. “We could stop by the jewelry counter.” He leaned closer, whispering as if a little flirting might seal the deal. “I’ll even hold your bags while you look at every pair of earrings in the store and then decide you want the first ones you saw.”

Paige bit her lip to keep from smiling. Henry grinned outright, hair flopping in his eyes as he looked back and forth from Philip to her. She forced her lips into a smile for their benefit, having never more wanted to sneer at him.

“I have things to do.”

Tone leaving the clear implication he should as well, she rose from the table and reached for Paige’s plate.

Avoiding him most of the day, she got home from the grocery store just before dark. He came into the kitchen and grabbed an apple, making a point to glance around for the kids before flipping on the water.

“Stan Beeman came by while you were out.” He leaned back against the counter, posture casual and eyes trained on the stairs. “’Bout an hour ago. Needed to borrow jumper cables.”

Her head shot up.

_“What?”_

“Yeah.” The concern in his eyes mirroring her tone, he made another check of the hallway. “Tried to get him into the kitchen for a beer, but he wouldn’t go for it.”

Waiting a few seconds for him to continue, Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath.

“You took him into _the garage_?” Shooting a quick glance towards the other room, she lowered her voice. “Philip, what the _hell_ were you thinking?”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “There wasn’t any way out of it. Trust me. The guy works in counterintelligence. It wasn’t like I could just--”

“So he saw the Oldsmobile.” Frowning, she grabbed his arm when he hesitated. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Philip nodded slowly, looking down.

“While I was getting the cables out of the trunk, he mentioned the model, guessed the year.” Pausing, he met her eyes, voice changing as his mouth flattened. “Had a funny look on his face.”

She covered her mouth and turned away. For all his less than admirable qualities, he read targets like books, instincts dead on.

“This is getting out of control.” Taking a breath, she turned to face him. “I’ve been telling you all along we need to act _now_ , take care of him and get out of this before he comes in here with an FBI team.”

He didn’t answer, a muscle in his face jerking as he silently stared at the floor.

_“Philip.”_

Meeting her eyes, he pushed away from the counter. She stared after him but didn’t follow, a seed of worry growing ever larger in the back of her mind.

Dinner was a tense affair. Barely listening to Henry recite hockey statistics in a thinly veiled attempt to avoid his vegetables, she picked at her food, rising to clear their plates the second Paige asked to be excused. Sealing the leftovers in Tupperware, she turned on the spigot and started to scrub, pointedly ignoring Philip when he reached around her to rinse his dinner glass.

“You still mad?” He murmured it just above the sound of the water.

She glanced over at the table where a forlorn Henry pushed a pile of unwanted green beans around his plate. Frowning, she set her jaw and didn’t answer. A hand slid to her back.

“Everything all right?” Softer this time, he moved close enough for his breath to warm her ear.

She closed her eyes and swallowed, hating him all the more for doing it where she couldn’t react. Stroking the back of her waist, he drew his fingers slowly just above her belt, the touch light enough to make her skin crawl. There was little doubt what he wanted later, Saturday evenings after the kids were in bed the one time he was ever allowed it.

Gripping the edge of the sink, she shook her head.

“Fine.”

“You wanna come to Henry’s school assembly?” Finally lifting the hand from her back, he crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. “We could all go--make a night of it. Maybe stop on the way back and pick up some--"

“No.”

She reached past him for the dish soap. He stared at her for what seemed an eternity, brow furrowed as she continued to pointedly ignore him. Leaning around her, he stuck his glass in the dishwasher and turned to Henry.

“Finish up. We need to leave in five.”

 

* * *

 

A movement from across the street caught her eye.

Elizabeth quietly inhaled, careful not to cause a flutter in the fabric as she peered around the curtain. White-blond hair glinting ghostly and pale in the moonlight, Stan Beeman walked to the end of his driveway, glancing around before crossing the road in a path too deliberately aimless to be coincidental.

Barely breathing, she kept her eyes trained on his face, watching as he made a casual turn towards their house. He slipped something from his pocket just past the row of mailboxes, making another check over his shoulder before kneeling in front of the garage to pick the lock.

The door rolled up a few feet, just enough so he could crawl inside. Jaw clenched tight, she didn’t move a muscle, incensed at the sight of him breaking into their home while Paige and Henry slept peacefully at the end of the hall, a single stray noise away from a world they couldn’t imagine.

Philip had stirred beside her just after midnight, sliding from their bed with far too much care not to wake her. Heart pounding, she kept her breathing perfectly even, not moving so much as a muscle as he silently dressed and slipped from the room. Counting out a full two minutes, she followed him to the garage.

“Come on. We don’t have much time.”

Her mouth came open in fury, the casualness of the instruction a slap in the face to a partnership two decades in the making, to the mission for which she’d sacrificed everything and the country they’d both sworn an oath to defend. They rounded the Oldsmobile together, twin traitors in jeans and American jackets, switching sides as if it was simple as giving up one language for the other.

“What’s going on?”   

He jerked at the sound of her voice, eyes quickly hardening into an expression she knew all too well. “I’m taking him to our neighbor.”

“You are?”

“Yeah.” Leaning closer, he lowered his voice. “I was going to drive him out, hand him off farther from home, but you seem to have taken the distributor cap.”

Unbelievably, pissed _at her_.

Not breaking his gaze, she kept her voice deadly even.

“So you were leaving me.”

As she’d expected, he ignored the accusation, eyes narrowing as they faced off.

“I’m going to make a deal,” he retorted, the self-assuredness bleeding into every word making the statement all the more infuriating. “One where you don’t have to talk to the Americans if you don’t want to, if you _think_ that’ll make you a traitor. But you _will_ come with me and the kids. It won’t be exactly what you want, but you’ll adjust.”

She stared back into his eyes, hands shaking with barely bottled rage. It was what she’d warned them about for years, told Zhukov he was capable of. His commitment to the cause gradually exposed over the course of their time there as tenuous at best, it was of little shock he’d stoop so low to sell out their country for the cloying promise of cash and a soft American life.

More disgusted by the sight of him than ever, she didn’t so much as blink. “So you’re just deciding for both of us?”

He shook his head, all pretense dropped. “Yeah. One of us has to.”

“Why you?” She forced it through gritted teeth.

_“Because we’re running out of time.”_ Face reddening, he practically spat it, the vein on his forehead rising angrily. “Why can’t we do this together?”

“Because I am a KGB officer.” She balled her hands into fists, biting off each word as if after twenty years of disagreeing at every turn, of hissed fights in the laundry room where the kids wouldn’t overhear and more heated ones they couldn’t hide, something might finally penetrate his thick skull. “Don’t you understand? After all these years, I would go to _jail_. I would _die_. I would lose _everything_ before I would betray my country.”

Philip stared back at her, forehead creased with what she didn’t care enough to try to place as horror or disbelief, any inkling of _loyalty_ unsurprisingly absent. Through with his games, she shook her head and pushed him out of the way.

“Now I’m finishing this.”

Mouth set with familiar stubbornness, he reached for her as she advanced on Timoshev, hands closing around her waist just as her elbow caught him sharply in the face. He grunted and fell. Hands out in a defensive posture, Timoshev moved to block her kick, but failed, no match for her speed. Seizing the opportunity, she struck him in the head, blocking, punching, each move gaining momentum as he struggled in vain to find an opening.

He swung at her and missed. Grabbing his arm, she knocked him sideways and sent him crashing into the workbench. Getting under her before she could block him, he lifted her by the waist and slammed her into the car. The wall rushed up to meet her, the impact sending her tumbling past flowerpots and gardening tools to the floor. She scrambled to her feet, watching Timoshev swivel and raise a hand to ward off impending attack.

_“Philip, don’t.”_

He froze, staring at her incredulously. Ignoring him, she turned to Timoshev, hair stuck to her cheeks, breathing ragged, watching him pause and glance over at Philip in the hopes he might stop her, still willing to carry out their deal. She planted both feet and squared her stance, unblinking as she stared the coward down.

_“Come on.”_

This time there was no question of superiority. She flew at him with all her might, twenty years of suppressed hatred roaring to life as her fists rained down, each blow a mirror image of what he’d once done to her. Slamming his head back, she took a minute to relish the sight of him reeling, too dazed to orient himself, before spearing him hard in the solar plexus.

Heart racing as she watched him grovel, pitiful and choking on the floor, she allowed him seconds to think he might actually reach the fallen tire iron at her feet before kicking his head viciously through the wall. She yanked him back and threw him against the car. Picking up the tool, she squeezed it in cold fingers, staring down at him in vengeful triumph.

It was the moment she’d waited two decades to realize, to look down on him slumped and defeated at her feet, nothing more than a broken shell. Absolute in her strength, she took no pains to conceal her satisfaction at their switched positions, wanting only to know that he’d felt every ounce of fear and helplessness she once had as she began one by one to break every bone in his body.

He lowered his head, English poorer than she remembered. “Sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

Frozen with the iron gripped in one hand, she didn’t move a muscle, fingers shaking, breathing starting to pick up. He waited a moment when she didn’t strike, continuing in a low voice.

“They let us have our way with the cadets. It was part of the job.” He raised his eyes to hers. “A perk.”

The most condescending of statements, it was delivered as if he’d bumped her elbow in a hallway rather than for a brutality forced upon her inch by inch, his sickening enjoyment at her lack of power apparent with every rasping grunt that raked her throat raw. Barely able to breathe, she held his gaze, strands of hair trembling against her chin and nose.

“What are you talking about?”

She flinched, almost having forgotten Philip was there. The question was raw, disbelief bleeding into his tone.

“How did you hurt her?”

Shaking so hard she could barely keep the iron steady, she didn’t turn, staring back into the dull emptiness of Nikolai Timoshev’s eyes.

“How did he hurt you?” Philip demanded again, voice growing more agitated by the second.

She swallowed, not hearing him, seeing only the girl waiting outside for a train on a frigid Russian morning, the one who’d trusted them without question, willing to sacrifice anything in their fight for the cause. The one who’d left everything behind, on the Centre’s orders, learning to sing the patronizing words to their national anthem and make an all-American breakfast that would’ve fooled any of the neighbors, to shoot a sniper rifle and plant a bomb, to seduce a man first with her eyes and then get down on her knees, smiling lustfully to hide her disgust as she slowly opened his zipper. The one who hadn’t questioned their methods, nor what they’d asked her to do, not allowing herself to imagine what her mother would’ve thought to picture her groveling on dirty motel room floors, eyes closed and hair stuck to her cheeks, a stranger’s dick shoved down her throat as she let them use her for sex in exchange for information. All of it done for a belief in something far more important than herself.

Was it possible her superiors could’ve known, even allowed it? Indulged in a crude accounting of the details of her violation after one too many glasses of vodka? Had they really decided she was expendable in such a way, her body not just something she would willingly use in service to her country, but a bargaining chip to tempt senior officers?

_All of them, no better than Yuri._

The strength drained from her limbs, leaving her standing in an empty garage in an empty house in an empty life, more alone than she’d ever been. Lip curling in disgust, she let the iron clatter to the floor.

“Do what you want with him.” She brushed past Philip without bothering to meet his eyes. “Take him to the Americans, if that’s what you want.”

The crash that followed sent a jolt through her chest. She whirled at the stairs, watching in disbelief as Philip grabbed Timoshev by the throat. Mouth coming open, she could only stare, unable to blink, much less look away. There was something terrible in his expression that set her heart pounding, jaw clenched, the veins in his neck taut as rope, hands shaking with an anger she’d never witnessed.

Before she could draw a breath, there was a muffled crack, the sickening sound of snapped vertebrae closing her throat. His body went limp, suspended dead and lifeless against the garage door for a matter of seconds before Philip let it tumble to the floor. Breathing hard, he turned, face lined with worry.

_For her._

She could only stare back at him, unable to move or breathe. Effortlessly, and with terrifying force, walls that had for years been her only protection came crashing down, shattering in a brilliant and frightening rush as their eyes locked. Stripped bare of her defenses, she was suddenly aware of the cool smoothness of cement under her feet, Philip’s eyes the only focal point in the room.

_If they are watching us, the last thing you want to do is kill Timoshev. That’s life in prison. That’s no deals, nothing._

_We could get a lot of money. Three million for him. Three million for us. We just get relocated, take the good life, and be happy._

Every petty irritation she’d glared at over the years came rushing back. The endless jokes and silly games over ice cream, his habit of hiding her silverware whenever they went out to dinner, countless invitations to hockey matches and the mall that he knew she would refuse but kept asking nonetheless . . . a lifetime of rejected kindnesses. All of it, done for _her_.

Never more utterly naked than in that moment, she pressed a hand to her chest, unable to turn from his eyes. They didn’t move for what seemed an eternity, Philip’s breathing gradually slowing as hers threatened to race out of control. After a moment he looked down and started forward.

“I’ll load the car.”

Brushing past her, he said it quietly, absent any anger or demand she explain. Grateful, she nodded, waiting until she heard his footsteps on the stairs to swipe at her cheeks.

Hands shaking, she struggled to get dressed upstairs, fingers fumbling with the slim, stubborn zipper of her boots. She took a breath and closed her eyes, running a hand through her hair. Philip’s nightstand was stuffed with books and a few unread auto magazines, the bottle of vodka they broke out only after successful missions hidden at the very back. Easing it out, she poured just enough to ease her nerves, downing it in the same motion.

The burn washed down her throat, familiar, steadying. Exhaling, she looked down, the shot glass rotating slowly in her fingers. For all the times she’d pushed him away, that he would ultimately be the one to protect her was a sore, stunning irony, the thought of what it might mean, terrifying. Unable to think of anything but the way he’d looked at her, she swallowed and touched her bottom lip, breathing once again starting to pick up.

He was bent over the trunk when she slipped back into the garage, head down and butt sticking out. Pausing for a moment to watch him carefully pack dark glass bottles of acid in foam, she looked away when he glanced up, tucking her hair behind one ear. They rolled Timoshev into the body bag without speaking, Philip meeting her eyes once the trunk was shut.

“The distributor cap?”

She cleared her throat, nodding. “It’s in the sack of birdseed.”

Brushing past her, he went to retrieve it. Elizabeth smoothed her hair again, giving her nose a final swipe. Back to her, he crouched down to dig out the part, jacket cinching a little at the shoulders and arms as he worked. She swallowed, not looking away, eyes traveling over the outline of his back until at last he straightened and closed the hood.

“You ready?”

He said it quietly. Having quickly turned to check the window, she nodded, watching him walk around to the far door.

Licking her lips, she took a breath. “Philip--”

His eyes flicked to hers. As quickly as it had come, courage waned, something in the way he looked at her making her stomach drop a foot. Shaking her head, she opened her door and scooted across the seat.

 

* * *

 

There was a low rumble downstairs. Careful not to move an inch, she held her breath as the garage door was lifted a few feet.

Stan Beeman rolled out onto their driveway and pocketed a flashlight, taking a cursory look around before crossing the street. She watched in silence as he brushed off his pants and ran a hand through his hair outside the door, as cautious returning to his own house as he’d been breaking into theirs.

Brow furrowing slightly, she turned when Philip slipped into the room.

“Did he go back in?”

“Yeah.” Holding her breath for a few extra seconds to see if anyone would reappear, she finally released the curtain. “Philip, what--?”

He shook his head and closed their bedroom door, voice low. “Looked over the car. Went in the trunk. It was clean.”

“What about the--?”

“Didn’t go near the wall.” Yawning, he pulled off his shirt and moved around her to the bathroom.

She folded her arms, leaning against the door jamb while he dug in the drawer for the toothpaste. “I don’t like this. If he--”

“We’re fine.”

Philip met her eyes in the mirror and stuck the toothbrush in his mouth. She stared at his back while he brushed, a thousand possibilities racing through her mind.

“He wouldn’t have gone in there on a whim,” she said after a moment, tapping her chin. “Not just because we drive the same car. Something else made him suspicious . . . either the day we came over or maybe he heard us get in last night.”

Lowering his head, Philip spat and turned off the water. “Yeah, but he didn’t find anything. What’s he gonna do, wake up his buddies down at the FBI and tell them we’ve got jumper cables and a spare?”

_Always joking_.

Ignoring the bait, she met his eyes. “We need to call this in.”

He shook his head and lowered his fly, motioning her out of the bathroom with the wag of one finger.

“You’re overreacting.”

Setting her jaw, she stepped back so he could close the door and pee. Pacing for a moment, she crept back over to the window, confirming the lights were still off across the street. The toilet flushed, the bathroom light snapping off a minute later.

Philip came up behind her and tossed his jeans onto the chair. “It’s late and we gotta work tomorrow. Let’s go to bed.”

Not answering, she made a last check of the Beeman’s and turned away from the window. Philip gave his pillow a quick punch and rolled over, breathing almost immediately slowing.

Swallowing, Elizabeth climbed into bed beside him and pulled the covers up to her chin. She closed her eyes and licked her lips, after a moment cautiously turning to watch the rise and fall of his back.

_Mikhail._

He was the man beside whom she’d slept for fifteen years, listening to him breathe, snore, fart in his sleep, and sing hated American pop songs off-key in the shower. The man with whom she’d buried evidence, blackmailed, lied, stolen and killed, fought night and day, changed diapers and blown on stinging cuts, squishing two squirming, giggling children between them as they licked dripping ice cream cones on a too-narrow bench, all of it having never known his name.

_We_ are _Philip and Elizabeth Jennings. We have been for a very long time._

Under orders, it was all they had ever been to each other, the only identities of which they were allowed to speak, the truth bottled so tightly at some point it had hardened into a mass. Orders she’d sworn to follow for the good of the mission, telling no one who she really was or where she’d come from, the girl who’d boarded the train in Smolensk forever left behind, a ghost no one could ever know.

Orders something had compelled her to disobey, to reach across their bed and take the hand that had once felt strange but was now familiar as her own, feel fingers warm and strong clasping hers as she gave him the only name that had ever felt true, the one she hadn’t so much as whispered in twenty years and the one that could finally be safe with him and no one else.

_Nadezhda._

 

 

 


	2. The Clock

“There. That’s the one you missed.” Tone authoritative, Elizabeth stood and bent over the room’s second desk, poking a pen at the computer screen. “Go back a little.”

Philip frowned, shaking his head. “That was--”

“No, look.” She set the printout aside, reaching around him to use the keyboard. “January eighteenth. I just saw it. You went too far.”

Hand nudging his an inch to the left, she tapped the arrow key. Their fingers brushed, his still resting on the desk, neither of them moving away.

“Yeah, I saw it too, but it was a zero.” Crinkling his eyes apologetically, Philip peered up at her. “They told you last year it might be time just to _think about_ reading glasses.

She let out an indignant laugh, the corners of her mouth threatening to curl. “It was an _eight_.”

Leaning closer, she rested a hand on the back of his chair, frowning as she scanned the list of dates and account balances. Voice holding a dry note of humor, Philip glanced over.

“Thought the plan was _you_ were gonna check off the list while _I_ called them out.”

She hid a smile, ignoring the obvious hint. Brow furrowed, she scrolled up a few more rows, tucking back her hair when it spilled over one shoulder. “I remember it was right there before the--”

Trailing off when she came to the entry, she let the cursor blink twice before straightening, not missing the slight twitch in Philip’s cheek as he craned back to look at her.

“You want me to call Dr. Callaway, make an appointment for later this week?”

Mouth perfectly flat, there was still a smirk in his eyes. She narrowed hers, propping a hand on one hip.

“Make it for yourself.” Glancing back into the main office, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Last time we went to the range I outshot you six to four.”

He grinned outright and leaned back in the chair. Unable to keep from smiling in return, she pushed away from his desk before their eyes could meet. Back turned, she took a breath and shook her head, suddenly distracted.

“We should go again soon. Once things settle down a little.”

A quick glance over one shoulder revealed he’d turned back to the computer. She nodded, frowning.

“Yeah.” The answer the slightest bit too loud, she rubbed the edge of her mouth, reaching down to straighten a stack of papers. “Have you seen Mrs. Hamilton’s itinerary?”

He didn’t look up from the screen. “Stavos filed it before he left. Top drawer.”

“They’re both gone?” Poking her head out into the main office, she stepped back inside and reached for her coffee. “You’ve got a meeting with Martha later?”

“At seven.” He leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “You okay taking the bus back?”

“Yeah.” Swallowing, she set down the cup, brushing past him on the way to the filing cabinet. Pausing once her fingers were wrapped around the handle, she looked down. “So how’s it going with her?”

The errant tap of his pen against the desk, a habit about which they’d had no shortage of conversations in years of sharing an office, ceased. She closed her eyes, regretting having asked in the unusual span of seconds that passed before he finally answered.

“Fine.”

By tacit agreement, he never asked, nor did she, ‘ _How’d it go?_ ’ or ‘ _You got it?_ ’ the extent to which they inquired after the other arrived home late from having worked over a mark. A system twenty years proven, it facilitated the necessary exchange of information while neatly avoiding unsavory details, the memory of being used as a depository for the depraved fantasies of weak-minded men something she had no desire to recount for anyone. Least of all, him.

Elizabeth gave the drawer a hefty yank, forcing any sign of interest from her voice.

“So, should I save you a plate?” Frowning, she pushed her hair back and got a better grip on the handle. “Henry’s been asking for spaghetti and meatballs.”

Philip leaned back in his chair, the quiet groan of leather hinting he’d turned to stare at her back.

“I shouldn’t be too late.”

Flashing him a quick look, she nodded. “Great.”

She turned away before he could respond, unsettled by the thought it might in any way matter whether they were sleeping together, more troubling still, that such information had the power to sour or improve her mood. Taking a firmer grip on the stuck handle, she pulled hard enough to jostle the set of plastic trays they kept on top.

The drawer stubbornly refused to budge. Philip pushed out of his chair and came up behind her. A hand settled at her back, his voice low and close to her ear.

“Need help?”

A touch of wry amusement coloring the question, he reached around her for the handle. Suddenly flustered, Elizabeth ducked her chin and pushed her hair behind one ear.

“We should’ve thrown this thing out years ago,” she informed him, narrowing her eyes when he smiled. “It’s a piece of junk.”

Nodding with false solemnity, he slid a hand over hers.

“You have to jiggle it.”

“Is that right?” Turning halfway, she stole a quick look at his profile.

His lip twitched.

“Mm-hmm.”

Owing to a universe that had never fairly favored women, the drawer popped open on the first try. Philip cleared his throat, waiting until she risked a glance in his direction to wink. She shook her head, fighting not to smile. Seconds crept by, something in his eyes softening, the hand resting over hers shifting ever so slightly when she made no move to step away.

They were separated only by inches, the scent of aftershave just close enough to be noticeable on his neck, warm and enticingly clean. She looked down, eyes inadvertently drifting towards his mouth.

Clearing her throat, she grabbed the file folder and pushed the drawer shut. “So, did you pick up the glue Henry needed for his project?”

His hand immediately fell from her back. Allowing her to pass, he flashed a quick smile.

“Paige had some she let him borrow.”

Nodding a bit too quickly, she swallowed and tucked her hair behind one ear. “No, that’s good.”

She fiddled with the closest stack of papers until he retreated into the office, fighting a strange mixture of disappointment and relief.

Things were . . . _changing_ between them, a relationship that had been from its inception strictly about accomplishing a common goal no longer something she could define. Her stomach jumped the moment their eyes met, an accidental glance at a mouth she’d seen every day for twenty years improbably capable of distraction, the lightness spinning in her chest as she reached across the table for his hand filled with an emotion she couldn’t rightly name as longing or fear.

“I’m headed out.”

Startled, Elizabeth took a second to compose herself before turning from the file cabinet.

“All right.”

Philip shrugged into his coat. “You need me to pick anything else up on the way home?”

She rubbed the edge of her mouth, quickly shaking her head.

“No.”

Their eyes locked. Staring back at him, she waited until he offered a quick smile and grabbed his scarf off the back of the chair to look away.

The outer door to the office closed. She leaned against the cabinet. Folding her arms, she closed her eyes and let out the breath it seemed she’d been holding for hours, taking a few seconds to wipe her expression clean before straightening and reaching over to snap off the lights.

 

* * *

 

_“Mom.”_ Henry hung his head. “It’s _fine_ just like this.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, ignoring his tone. “It’s not fine. You misspelled--”

“I’m _tired_.”

He slumped over the desk, elbow skittering dangerously close to the bottle of Elmer’s glue. Grabbing it, she screwed on the orange plastic top and tapped a finger against the poster board.

“Fix it. Right now.”

Henry rubbed his eyes and propped his chin in both hands, mouth drooping noticeably at the corners. Biting back annoyance at the nagging suspicion he would’ve cooperated without question with Philip, Elizabeth took a breath and bent down to sweep up the little scraps of construction paper littering his desk before they could end up on the floor.

“ _Mom_ , I’m out of cotton balls.” Already in pajamas, Paige stuck her head in the door and waved the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “I have to clean my posts. Can we go to the drugstore?”

“No, I’ll get you some from my room.” Elizabeth dropped the paper in the wastebasket and brushed off her hands. “Just a minute. Henry--”

“ _That’s_ supposed to be the Liberty Bell?” Coming over to inspect his work, Paige giggled and poked his arm. “It looks more like a mushroom.”

_“Shut up.”_

Henry pushed her away. Sniffling, he wiped his eyes.

_“Stop it,_ both of you.” Grabbing his arm, Elizabeth flashed Paige a warning look and pointed to the door. “Go to your room.” Waiting until a thump registered down the hall, she turned back to Henry. “Finish this up. Dad will be in to check it before bed.”

Philip was seated at the kitchen table when she came downstairs. Fork rotating in a massive knot of spaghetti, he glanced up and nodded towards the ceiling.

“How’s it going up there?”

Shaking her head, she shot him a look. He wiped his mouth, starting to rise before she motioned him back.

“It’s fine. I dealt with it.” Shifting the laundry basket to one hip, she grabbed the old dishtowels and gestured with her chin. “There’s chocolate cake in the fridge if you want some.”

There was a flash of dark curls as his head popped up. Raising an eyebrow, he nodded, in that moment looking uncannily like Henry had upon receiving the same news. Elizabeth hid a smile and shook her head, backing through the door.

When she emerged from the laundry room some ten minutes later, he was leaning against the counter, polishing off a large piece. Nodding at her, he licked the fork clean and dropped it in the sink.

“It’s good.”     

She hooked both thumbs in her pockets, wandering closer. “I picked it up from that new bakery over by the post office.”

“Hmm.”

He turned to rinse the plate. Staring at his back, she took a breath.

“So how’d it go?”

He didn’t answer right away. Shutting off the faucet, he glanced back at her and reached for a towel. “Would you like some wine?”

Only a little hesitant, she nodded, offering a half smile.

It was what they’d done for the better part of a week, poured glasses of wine or tumblers of gin after the kids were in bed, a special dessert or plate of caviar serving to buffer the distance between them, some measure of awkwardness eased as they felt their way through halting conversations decades overdue, courage slowly building until one would carefully reach for the other’s hand, cautious as two teenagers seeking an excuse to touch for the first time.

Philip retrieved the glasses from the cabinet. Lifting her chin, Elizabeth forced any sign of nervousness from her face. He slid in next to her on the sofa, handing her a glass of chardonnay.

She took a sip, not meeting his eyes. Draping an arm across the back of the cushions, Philip checked behind them and lowered his voice.

“FBI doesn’t seem any closer to discovering who Robert was. They’re not even sure he’s connected with the kidnapping, think he could’ve been a drifter that got in a fight, or a drug deal gone bad. His picture was sent out to police departments across the country, but we know that won’t turn anything up.”

Elizabeth nodded, gently rotating her glass. “Maybe this time we get lucky.”

He shrugged and took another sip. “It’s been a week and a half. Still too early to say. Now that they’ve given up hope of recovering Timoshev, they’re gonna start digging deeper.”

“Following up on any lead, no matter how crazy,” she finished, fingering the slender crystal stem.

“Right.”

She closed her eyes and sank back into the cushions.

Philip sighed. Setting down his glass, he reached for her hand. “We’ll be fine.”

She let him take it, fingers lacing easily as they had the preceding evening, without the half second of hesitation still there the night before that. Their thumbs glanced and then firmly locked, hers snug over his. Stomach churning with a mixture of shakiness and sudden warmth, she looked back down.

“There’s no way to know that.”

“Look.” He shook his head, scooting closer. “Even if they do find Robert, there’s _nothing_ connecting him to us. No common agents. No one they can go after for information.”

Elizabeth stared into his eyes, after a moment, nodding. Expression softening, he squeezed her shoulder, thumb gliding over her index finger in an unhurried motion, tracing her skin so lightly she couldn’t think straight.

“Philip.”

She whispered his name, unable to justify why.

Moving very carefully, he reached up to tuck her hair behind one ear, letting his fingers trail a few inches down its length before resting the arm behind her on the sofa. The seconds stretched out. Her neck grew warm, pulse racing under the slow stroke of his thumb until she finally lifted her eyes.

He wasn’t smiling, face solemn as they stared at one another in silence. Swallowing, Elizabeth looked down.

“I told Henry you’d check on him before bed.” She said it neutrally, thumb skittering in a nervous back and forth motion along his.

He started to shift on the couch, hesitating when she made no move to release his hand. Frowning, she cleared her throat and quickly let go, reaching for her wine glass.

He rose from the couch, calling up the stairs, “Hey, buddy, let’s see this project.”

Closing her eyes once he was gone, Elizabeth let out a long breath, taking a moment to compose herself before standing and smoothing her slacks.

For the first time not particularly sorry what night it was, she brushed out her hair in the mirror upstairs, applying a dab of lotion to her legs and slipping into a plain black tank. Stretching out under the covers, she glanced up when Philip closed the door to their bedroom.

“How bad is it?”

He shrugged and made a face.

She shook her head. “He does this every time . . . puts it off until the last minute then shuts down when he gets overwhelmed. We can’t keep letting him--”

“We’ve had a few other things going on.” Sighing, Philip stripped off his shirt. “One of us has been out practically every night for the past week. I don’t even remember what time you got in yesterday.”

Taking a breath, she rubbed her arms. “It was after one.”

Philip unbuttoned his pants and grabbed pajamas from the drawer. “Yeah, well something has to give. It’s a fifth grade project. Let’s just let it go.”

Not answering, Elizabeth tapped her chin, staring off into space while he brushed his teeth. She applied a touch of lip balm when the water shut off, smoothing her hair so it fanned out over her shoulders. Philip emerged from the bathroom, yawning. Stomach giving a nervous jump when he climbed under the covers, she switched off her lamp and scooted down lower on the pillows.

He flopped around for a minute and settled down with a grunt. Strangely tempted to smile at the ritual, Elizabeth twisted her hair up off her neck, allowing it to spill behind the pillow. A minute grew to two, anticipation fueled by the remembered tickle of lips at her throat, his mouth molded warm and wet over hers as they ground together on the seat. Taking a breath, she licked her lips, waiting for him to roll over to her side.

The silence was broken by a quiet snore from the other side of the bed. Caught off guard, she hazarded a glance his way, frowning as she listened to his breathing slowly even out. Not moving for a few seconds, she sat up and adjusted her pillows, taking no pains to avoid jostling the bed.

He grunted again and flipped onto his back.

“You okay?”

Wondering if he’d forgotten what day it was, she swallowed.

“Fine.”

His breathing slowed again. Left staring at the ceiling, not remotely close to sleep, Elizabeth closed her eyes and hugged the pillow close.

Sex had, from the genesis of a partnership fraught with tension, served as an ever-present source of dread. Their orders were given before they left Moscow. Two children, conceived as soon as practical after arrival, preferably the second within eighteen months of the first. A hindrance from an operational standpoint in the early years, they would later play an invaluable role in strengthening their cover, the idea of parents incompatible in the minds of their weak-willed hosts with that of spies.

Beyond that, further _expectations_ had been outlined by one of their female instructors during training. Impressing upon them the importance of maintaining focus once they were stationed behind enemy lines, a warning was delivered with deepest gravity and no attempt to soften the truth that it was the _men_ who most often failed, who despite the critical nature of the mission they were being sent overseas to fulfill couldn’t get past the baser impulse to rout like pigs, allowing themselves to become distracted, potentially falling prey to traps not unlike those they would lay.

The message seeming to confirm what she’d suspected from the start, that her assigned partner’s sense of loyalty was less than absolute, it was made clear she would be expected by the Centre to allow him periodic access to sex, the danger he could be seduced by agents of an outside group not something their superiors had failed to consider, nor an allowable risk in the face of a far more straightforward option for dealing with physical urges.

Their training sought to eliminate all trace of feeling from the act, reducing sex to a series of physical movements no more or less tied to emotion than loading a rifle or breaking a man’s arm, her body as apt a tool for gathering information as any other. Minor personal indignities were meaningless, part of the sacrifice they’d all vowed to make in support of the cause, any qualms she might’ve had about the idea simply not among the Centre’s considerations.

But with him, it was a personal affront. The only one who knew the truth, he understood with absolute certainty that their life together was a lie, that she wanted nothing more than to lock the door to their bedroom and never have to sleep with him. To have to spread her legs for his pleasure and relief, lying motionless while he grunted and emptied himself between them, was the most degrading of blows, callously demoting her from partner and fellow officer to whore.

Repulsed at the thought of him touching her, as the months passed, resentment only grew. She kept her eyes averted as they crossed paths on the way to the shower, sick at the knowledge that particular directive could only be put off for so long before he quietly sent back word through their handler and reported her unwillingness to cooperate.

The final straw came in a message from the Centre the second year after insertion requesting an update on their _progress_. Dreading the thought of a personal message from Zhukov, she resolved late one rainy Saturday afternoon to simply get it over with.

“Everything all right?”

She didn’t bother looking at him, aware she’d been jumpy all day.

“Fine.” Sliding on her jacket, she paused. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Probably late.”

He didn’t answer right away, studying her face for a few seconds before turning away.

“Sure.”

She didn’t get in until almost midnight. The brief exchange of information that was more often than not their only form of conversation more tense than usual, she swallowed when he sat down on the bed, silently steeling herself.

“I’m ready.”

He frowned, momentary confusion clouding with something else as understanding set in. Allowing no time to think about it, she began undoing her buttons one by one until she stood before him in her bra, barely breathing.

He looked away once she dropped the blouse on the floor, eyes careful not to travel anywhere close to her body. Finally facing her, he took a breath.

“Are you sure?”

They stared at each other in silence, neither moving. Not allowing her chin to tremble even a little, she held his gaze, something catching in her throat as she forced the words out.

“You’ll make a good father.”

Sick to her stomach, she waited until he lowered his head to begin turning off the lamps. Philip exhaled, making no move towards her.

“You don’t,” he paused, voice lower, “sound like you really want to.”

Not even trying to deny it, she swallowed and unbuttoned her skirt.

“We have to.”

Philip shook his head, back still to her.

“It doesn’t matter what the message said . . . we don’t _have_ to do this. Maybe we tell the Centre we’ve been trying and it just hasn’t happened yet. You know, the baby.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, the statement less of a surprise than simply the usual disappointment.

“They’re orders.” Frowning at the last lamp, she inclined her chin. “Turn off the light.”

Her stomach dropped a foot when he complied, the room suddenly washed in darkness. Willing herself not to be sick, she turned and slid off her panties, worry balling tighter in her gut as she listened to him close the door and start removing clothes in the dark, unzipping his pants and dropping his watch on the nightstand.

She took a breath and lay down, forcing one breath to come and then the next, trying to ignore the sound of his hand moving back and forth as he got himself ready. The bed shifted. Sliding beneath the covers, he slowly moved over to her side. She flinched when his hand brushed past her knee, what a second later swayed fleshy and warm against her leg filling her with far deeper revulsion. Silently condemning the show of weakness, she lifted her chin and forced her breathing to slow.

“Sorry.”

He whispered it much too close to her cheek, fingers trailing lightly through her hair. Cringing at the awkward, despised attempt at intimacy, she swallowed and didn’t react, not realizing until his breath reached the edge of her mouth that he intended to kiss her.

It was too much. She quickly turned her head, his lips instead finding a mouthful of hair. From there they traveled slowly to her neck, pressing kisses every inch or so in a fumbling attempt to soften her resistance. His hand worked its way between her legs, parting, kneading, a single finger moistened with spit invading every last crevice until it located what it was after. She didn’t say anything, fighting back tears as he felt her over.

It went on for a full minute before she shook her head, preferring pain to a far too personal exploration by hand as he made a futile attempt to stimulate her.

“You should just start.”

She managed to say it evenly, keeping the quiver from her voice despite being unable to entirely still it in her chin. His lips paused at her throat, the hated finger retreating. Pushing off the pillows, he guided her knees apart, positioning himself between them.

The first penetration was the worst, sharp pain followed by the rush of queasiness that still came every single time. Jaw tightly clenched, she didn’t utter a sound, her mistake coming only when her fingers twisted, gnarled and shaking, in the blankets. Philip paused, making her hate him all the more as he stared down at her.

“Am I hurting y--?”

“Just,” she shook her head, face burning, “get it over with.”

She didn’t look at him, couldn’t, the quick, contained exhalation that followed betraying she’d wounded him. Starting to thrust, he said nothing more, pushing into her silently in the dark until minutes later, it was over.

The pain receded to a dull burn once he withdrew, humiliation and anger slower to fade. Thankful the lights were out, she snatched her clothes from the floor and fled to the bathroom. Only once the shower was running did she allow the tears to fall, the spray of the hot water covering any sound as it washed away her shame. Refusing to so much as glance in his direction, she crawled back into bed and clutched her pillow, wishing she couldn’t still feel him between her legs.

He didn’t say anything, nor did she. Back to him, she didn’t move a muscle, knew when he quietly swallowed he wasn’t asleep either.

For the better part of the following week, they barely spoke, brief exchanges about mission objectives and dead drops all that was offered from either side. She didn’t look him in the eye, couldn’t bear the thought of him seeing how much it upset her to have to sleep with him.

Only as the week came to a close did she reluctantly admit the state of things between them was unsustainable, the chance a stalemate in communication would eventually lead to mistakes too high to justify. Needing a way to establish parameters, she debated what interval would be acceptable, the thought of him randomly sliding across the bed on nights he felt horny guaranteed to leave her constantly on edge.

_They needed ground rules._

Deciding once a week would allow no justification for complaints, the following Saturday she made an extra trip to the store to pick up pork chops and shoved a dish of scalloped potatoes in the oven to bake, the closest she could manage to a truce. He didn’t come into the kitchen until she turned off the vent fan, hanging back a bit warily in the doorway as if the idea she might’ve purposefully cooked a dinner he liked spelled a certain attempt at poisoning.

“Did you make the drop?”

Pausing with a forkful of potatoes almost to his mouth, he nodded. “On the way back from my run.”

“That’s good.”

She pushed peas around on her plate, trying to think of something more to say. Philip glanced her way, but offered nothing, taking another bite in silence.

Finishing with the dishes, she wiped off the counter and downed two shots of vodka, wanting only to be numb for it. He was already in bed, leafing through yet another auto magazine. Unable to look him in the eye, she shut the door and untied her robe. Philip slowly closed the magazine and laid it on his chest. Keeping her eyes averted, she slid under the covers.

“We should try again.”

He didn’t have to ask what she meant.

“Do you want to,” he paused, clearly uncomfortable, “be on top? Maybe it would feel better if you controlled how--”

“No,” she answered quickly, the thought of having to actively participate even worse than lying there while he took care of things.

He didn’t respond at first, finally reaching over to switch off the lamp. Having come to the conclusion it was advantageous to get it over with as swiftly as possible, she didn’t object when he lowered his lips to her neck, tolerating the hand working feverishly in the front of her panties, even as it gleaned few results. She counted out two minutes on the clock ticking in the far corner of the room and took a breath, careful to keep her voice even.

“I’m ready.”

Mercifully, it was less painful the second time. Finishing without too much of a production, Philip said nothing after rolling off her, his quiet pant of breath gradually slowing as she turned over and slid her panties back on.

He’d been gentle, she acknowledged later, a fact she’d counted on and the only thing that made the act bearable each time she was forced to repeat it.

As the years passed, so did the seconds of sickening fear. Sex with Philip became a routine to fulfill, much as with her marks. There was no variation. He came to her once a week, lips brushing her neck in a silent question if it might be allowable, hands lifting her nightgown when she offered no outward sign of protest. They used only the one position. Arms limp on either side of the pillow, she opened her knees and let him do his business, counting down the seconds until he finished thrusting.

Never allowing him the intimacy of kissing her on the mouth, she tolerated the rest in silence, their weekly ritual becoming little more than an . . . _annoyance_ she was required by mission parameters to put up with. Perplexed the first time she began to notice him making subtle adjustments in technique, she tried to write off the shifts in angle that could’ve as easily been for his benefit as hers, their intent gradually growing less veiled, what was already a tiresome chore made doubly grating as the minutes stretched out, his hips grinding hers doggedly into the mattress. Jaw clenching once she figured out what he was after, she resisted his efforts, hating him all the more for seeking to provoke her into _finishing_.

Resentment deepening each time tension began to build, she held back again and again, finally resolving to end it quickly for her own sake, the annoyance of being forced into a state of agitation week after week leaving her unable to fall asleep long after he started to snore, mental clarity and the alertness needed to do their jobs something they couldn’t afford to sacrifice. Gritting her teeth through what was, from a physical standpoint, nothing more than a meaningless release of pressure, under the influence of which she wasn’t quite so easily swayed as their targets, she held her breath until it passed, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of hearing her make a sound. Their bedroom dark and silent as ever, he said nothing, merely finished and rolled over without any indication he’d noticed a thing.

Unable to sleep, Elizabeth pushed back the covers and reached for her robe. She turned on the kitchen light downstairs and put some tea on to boil, gaze lingering on the vase of roses he’d gotten her for Valentine’s Day. By tradition it was always a small stuffed bear for Paige, for Henry, whatever sort of chocolate he happened to be eating by the pound that year.

For her, he left flowers by her place at the table, allowing her to enjoy them without the pressure of a reaction. Touching her bottom lip, she fingered the soft edge of one petal.

In some ways it felt natural as breathing, a long-held weight in her chest, clutched tight out of habit more than comfort, wonderfully lifted. There was a newfound softness that entered his voice whenever they were alone, tenderness she’d for the longest time never wanted to hear and now couldn’t help but privately covet. At other moments, it scared her more than she dared admit, feelings that for the better part of two decades had simply failed to form spiraling dangerously out of control.

“You all right?”

She jumped and pressed a hand to her chest, turning to the doorway. Philip’s hair was rumpled, eyes bleary from sleep. Shaking her head, she shot him a rueful look and reached for the teakettle.

“You startled me.”

“Yeah, well.” He leaned against the counter and rubbed his face. “Gets to be a habit, you know?”

Nodding, she looked down, fingering the edge of her mug.

“Sure.”

He reached around her to the cabinet for an extra cup. “Everything okay?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Not quite the truth, it was close enough. Taking her hand, Philip gave it a little squeeze.

“You wanna talk about it?”

She shrugged and took a sip of her tea. “Sometimes I just worry, you know?”

“Yeah.”

Nodding, she let out a breath. Staring down at her, Philip waited a moment and set his cup aside.

“C’mere.”

She let him draw her close, eyes falling closed as she pressed her forehead to the warm skin of his neck. Arms tightened behind her back, hers curling around his waist, snug as if they’d always fitted that way. Softening against him, she took shallow breaths as he began to rock her slowly back and forth, drinking in the scent of soap and skin. Philip pressed his cheek to the top of her head, fingers stroking softly at her back, the feeling of his chest rising and falling under her neck comforting in a way she’d never known to crave.

Careful to keep her composure once he released her, she looked down, not protesting when he gently smoothed her hair.

“We have to be up in a few hours.” His fingers brushed her ear so lightly it could’ve been an accident. “You wanna go back to bed?”

Nodding, she drained her cup and set it on the dish rack. Upstairs in their room, she slid back beneath the covers, hesitating only briefly before reaching for his hand.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't until the night he killed Timoshev that she'd ever needed their partnership to mean anything more. Unable to keep from staring as they drove out to dump the body, she searched his profile in the fleeting light of streetlamps, analyzing each line and curve of his face as if the answer to why he'd ever done such a thing for her might be written in tiny letters at the edge of his lips.

It was on his mouth that her gaze inevitably settled. They'd kissed before when their cover required it. Parties. Dinners out. The false weeks of practice that had constituted a 'honeymoon’ of sorts. Quick pecks every now and again where the kids might see. Never for any purpose that could've been deemed recreational. But as she stared at his mouth in the dark, she could think of nothing else.

Their task complete, they climbed into the car without a word. Neither moved once the doors shut, Philip's hand inching briefly towards the ignition before falling to his lap. Making no attempt to start the car, he stared out the windshield, finally turning to meet her eyes.

Not for the first time that night, her heart took off, thundering out of control as they faced each other. She couldn't think straight, couldn't focus, every practical consideration crumbling, nothing remaining but the simple, primal truth of wanting him so badly she couldn't breathe. Trembling hard enough to feel it in her hands, she slid across the seat. Philip didn't move, breathing dangerously shallow where hers was unsteady as if she'd run for miles. The disbelief in his eyes was palpable, face frozen in an expression she couldn't hope to read.

Ever so carefully, she eased closer, allowing her eyes to fall halfway closed as his breath warmed her lips. Their noses brushed, heat from his chest reaching her a second before their mouths met. His lips were softer than she remembered, fuller, the subtle flavor of chapstick drifting over her tongue as she tentatively kissed him.

Sucking lightly at his bottom lip, she released it after only the briefest contact, retreating an inch from his mouth. He didn’t react, brow furrowed, breathing almost undetectable as the seconds stretched out.

Their breaths mingled again, his jaw softening. She found his tongue, touched it with hers, the act of doing so foreign after twenty years. Rough and a little cool, it was softer than she’d expected, tasting lightly of coffee. Head rocking back a little as she kissed him, he sat all but motionless, lips pliant, barely reacting, unprotesting but offering nothing in return, only the act of opening his mouth as she moved in giving any indication he wanted it to continue.

Pushing forward, she kissed him harder, deeper, wanting him to _want_ it again, like he had before in the kitchen, mouth brushing longingly against her skin. She slid a hand up his chest, angling one knee to get into his lap. Warm and strong, his hands found her waist, steadying her as she maneuvered around the steering wheel and settled just over his hips.

Their eyes locked once she was there, his still dark and guarded. She didn't break his gaze, fingers skimming slowly over his shoulders, leaving no question what she wanted. He smoothed her hair back, staring up into her face.

For how many times they'd had sex with eyes averted, it was an alien thing, that she now wanted _him_ the most improbable twist of circumstances. And yet she couldn’t deny the back of her neck tingled at the idea of what it would be like for them to come together that way, to have him stare down at her like _that_ while trailing lips over every inch of her skin, sweeping her away with the force of his passion.

Fingers gentle in brushing back her hair, he stared up into her eyes, let the edge of his thumb skim her cheek, gaze sinking to her mouth. She pressed closer, flush against his torso, not missing the way his lips stayed trained on hers, breathing starting to speed.

He touched her chin, eyes searching hers, the softer kiss that followed quietly asking a question, but not demanding any answer. She didn’t look away, pushing up into his zipper as their lips skimmed. His hips shifted beneath her, a lucky pass sending a tremor to the tip of each toe. Shuddering, she wrapped both arms around his neck, knees stretching wider until he repeated it. He was swollen hard against the seam of her jeans, painfully so, that she wasn’t the only one who wanted to fuck no secret as their tongues met.

Her hand slid down his chest, fingers trying to hook under his belt buckle despite their awkward angling against the steering column. Locking her tight in his arms, he guided her back onto the seat, expression for once devoid of any humor. Their mouths fused, she slid her hands under his jacket. He stripped it off, face slack, shirt wonderfully tight at his arms as he moved back over her.

Shaking outright, she grappled for his belt. It was a need like nothing she’d ever fathomed, dizzying, addictive, the thought of making it home to the bed, impossible. He kissed her just once and pulled back, staring down into her eyes. Hands trembling, she lowered his zipper and pushed his briefs out of the way, letting him wrestle her jeans far enough off her hips to get into position.

And then with one deep, tight push, they were joined. She drew a breath, knees shaking. Philip stared down at her, unblinking, taking in her every reaction. He began to move, pushing all the way in and then drawing back out, repeating it until she shuddered and let her head tip back, drinking in the tickle of lips at her chin and throat, _Philip_ , whose mouth she suddenly craved like a first breath after being submerged, unable ever to get enough.

She lifted her head from the seat. Their tongues met, his warm and rough, invading her mouth with a ferocity that made her toes curl. Unhurried in his motions, he filled her again just before she could miss it, urging her on at a tight, steady pace, hips measured in dictating depth, meting out the satisfying grind of angle, gradually increasing speed until she closed her eyes and gripped his shoulders, breathing more ragged every second.

Panting against her lips, Philip broke for air. The cramped space they inhabited began to shrink, growing ever tighter and smaller. A groan strangled in her throat, choked off before it could form. Bodies lurching together roughly on the seat, he tasted her chin, glided over her mouth and nuzzled the tip of her nose, the push of hips steady as her fingers began to dig into his back.

Gasping for breath, she shuddered, reveling in how close he was, chest hard and immoveable, their chins bumping at a feverish pace, body pressed to every inch of hers until the one, most intimate of places where he’d entered, the two of them linked in a silent, private dance. She gritted her teeth and gripped him hard, watched the expression drain from his face as he swelled against her in response, a tenuous hold on control threatening imminent collapse. Raking fingers down his arms, she buried her head in his neck, mouth coming open, knees beginning to shake, Philip moving faster every second, inching her nearer to the edge. Before she could draw another breath, her last tendril of control burst in a deep, blinding rush.

Her head fell back on the seat. Arching into him, she grunted and then moaned, unable to stifle the sound. Lips found her neck, sucking and tasting, mapping the skin of her throat, hips making small, patient motions until finally she exhaled against his lips, through. He stiffened a few seconds later. Breath rough in her ear, he groaned and forced them together a final time, arms going slack, a throbbing pulse palpable through the damp skin of his neck.

Panting, he lifted his head, their eyes meeting. Elizabeth licked her lips and looked down, waiting for him to pull out. Heart still pounding, she tugged up her jeans, trying to wriggle back into them without kicking him in the head. The act of disentangling bodies a fumbling process on the cramped seat, she avoided his eyes, silently straightening her clothes.

Awkwardness entered for the first time once they returned to separate sides of the car, the thought of attempting to define what had just happened twisting her stomach into knots. To her relief, Philip said nothing, barely even waited for her to get her jeans buttoned before starting the ignition.

They hadn’t said a word about it since.

 

* * *

 

“Henry, another pancake?”

Still spooning up syrup with his fork, he nodded enthusiastically. Elizabeth deposited the last one on his plate and stuck the griddle in the sink. Philip glanced up from the paper, finishing off the last of his coffee.

“Eat fast. Five minutes and we’re out.” He stood and grabbed the orange juice, passing over his plate when she stuck out a hand to take it. “Thanks.”

“Can you finish up their lunches?”

Brushing past him, she flipped on the water. He got out the jar of peanut butter, touching her shoulder as he reached around her for a knife.

“You feeling better?” Murmuring it, he glanced her way and unscrewed the lid.

“Yeah.”

She shook her head and shrugged, the answer a little louder than necessary. Offering him a quick smile, she turned back to scrubbing the empty bowl of batter.

They worked in silence. Smearing two slices of bread with thick globs of peanut butter, he licked the knife clean and stuck it in the dishwasher. She shook her head and turned back to the dishes, at a loss to understand how he’d learned to tolerate the texture.

“Okay, two minutes. Teeth and homework.” He snapped the latch on Henry’s lunchbox and grabbed a brown paper bag for Paige. “Time to get a move on.”

“But I’m not finished.” Henry’s lip hovered close to a pout.

“You can take some fruit for the car,” Elizabeth answered, not giving him a chance to argue before she captured his plate. “Now go get your social studies project.”

“C’mon, Henry.” Paige pulled on his arm, all but dragging him out of the chair. “I’ll help you find everything.”

Elizabeth glanced through the doorway as they shuffled upstairs. Grabbing the sponge, she started wiping down the counter. Philip lifted Henry’s thermos to safety and screwed on the lid.

“You want leftover spaghetti or ham?” He opened the refrigerator, peering at their choices.

Looking down for a moment, she tucked her hair behind one ear, testing the words in her head before finally glancing his way. “Do you want to get lunch out today? Maybe Chinese?”

Regretting asking for a half-second, she was flooded with relief when he smiled.

“Sure.”

 

 

 


	3. Gregory

The bump of a drawer woke her. Sunlight peeked through thin cracks at the edge of the curtains, their bedroom cast a muted gold in the rare quiet of early morning. Stretching, Elizabeth rubbed her face, wiping the sleep from her eyes before flipping over.

His side of the bed was empty. Running a hand through her hair, she took a sip of water from the glass on the nightstand and pushed back the covers. She crossed the room quietly, the wood floor cool under her bare feet.

The bathroom door was cracked to let out steam, light filtering in through the window over the tub. Head bent, Philip had his back to her, examining the cut just to the right of his navel. His shirt was off, hair wet and tightly curled from a fresh shower. Leaning against the door jamb, she rubbed her arms, longing forming a hard lump in her chest.

“You missed a spot.”

She kept her voice soft.

He didn’t answer, shoulders sinking half an inch. Stepping closer, Elizabeth angled around him to grab the small towel by the sink, using it to blot a trace of shaving cream from his neck. He swallowed, not reacting. Peering up into his face, she laid the towel on the counter and ran a hand down his arm.

“Can I see?”

“It’s fine,” he murmured, reaching for the tube of First-Aid cream. 

Gentle, she pushed his hands aside. He didn’t fight her, expression unwavering as she rotated him towards the light and bent for a better look. True to his assessment, the wound had nearly healed, the dark red line almost completely scabbed over. She unscrewed the cap and dabbed a thin layer of medication over the scar.

He said nothing, standing rigid as a plank while she tacked on a narrow strip of gauze with butterfly closures. Resting one hand against his stomach, she let her head dip, hair dangling loose against his bare chest. His skin was warm and still damp, smelling lightly of soap.

“There,” she whispered, allowing her fingertips to graze the short line of hair above his navel. He stiffened and pushed away from the sink.

“Thanks.”

The statement was dead, conveying anything but gratitude. Shaking her head, Elizabeth reached for his arm.

“Philip, wait--”

He exhaled, looking past her. Whether pain or anger was more prominent in the set of his jaw, she couldn’t be sure, the haunted emptiness in his eyes slicing her through.

Looking down, she touched his chest, at a loss to come up with anything that hadn’t already been said. Philip swallowed, muscles tensing under her fingers.

She let her gaze drift over his torso. Stomach firm, his jeans hung low on his hips, the slight bulge to the left of his zipper suggesting the negligee he hadn’t so much as blinked at the night before when she slipped into bed beside him hadn’t gone entirely unappreciated.

Stepping closer, she lifted her chin, making no effort to straighten the thin strap balanced precariously at the edge of one shoulder. His breathing stayed measured and low, eyes affixed to some point just behind her ear. She moved a second hand to his chest, allowing her fingers to travel slowly downwards.

He caught them just before they reached his waistband. Moving around her, he went to the closet for a shirt.

She followed, slowing at the edge of their bed.

_“Philip.”_

She whispered it this time, tone equal parts frustrated and plaintive. Back to her, he finished dressing. She crossed her arms and looked away, unable to bite back the hard edge that formed around the words.

“What is it that you want me to say?”

Philip lowered his head, pain briefly unmasked by a twinge in his cheek. A moment passed in tight, miserable silence, the four walls of their bedroom having long housed unspoken ghosts. Not bothering to answer, he buckled his belt and turned for the door. Elizabeth exhaled, closing her eyes once he was gone.

_It was no use._

She’d allowed him space after their return home from Philly, accepting certain revelations were still painfully raw. For days they moved around the house in a fog, exhausted mentally as much as physically, forced to act anything but for the benefit of Henry and Paige. Any semblance of normalcy falling once the door to their bedroom shut, they quietly avoided one another, fatigue doing little to nurse an injury deeper than any their partnership had ever known.

A week passed with little sign of improvement. Not precisely ignoring her, it was no less clear he’d walled himself off, repeated attempts on her part to bridge the gap, useless. He didn’t smile unless the kids were there, wouldn’t look at her. Turning over the moment they were in bed, she was left to stare at his back after the lights went out, afraid of what he would do if she reached out across the empty space between them to stroke his shoulder.

Worst of all had been the noted loss of any humor. The last thing she would’ve sworn ever to miss, their house had been rendered empty and lifeless in its absence, leaving her more than once to wish she might come down to breakfast only to catch him flicking Cheerios across the table at Paige, shrugging innocently at the spate of giggling that ensued while hooking a thumb in Henry’s direction.

The dark, familiar aroma of coffee greeted her upon entering the kitchen. Philip and Henry were hunched over the sports section and a page of comics, respectively, neither looking up when she entered the room. Hair sticking out in several directions, Henry was still in his pajamas, a particularly ratty set with holes in both elbows she’d had no luck in convincing him to part with, finally coming to the reluctant conclusion there was simply no competing with Luke Skywalker.

Elizabeth took a breath. “How about blueberry pancakes this morning?”

No one jumped to answer. Philip glanced over at Henry with a raised eyebrow, waiting several seconds for a response before shrugging.

“That’s fine.”

She turned away. Tapping fingers on the counter, she swallowed, taking a moment to clear her head before reaching into the fridge for the orange juice.

“And bacon?” Henry added hopefully, too distracted to look up from the funnies.

“We’re out.” She carried the juice to the table and poured him a glass. “What if I made ham and eggs instead?”

Henry’s head shot up. “Really?”

“Really.” She smiled, combing fingers through his hair.

He squirmed out of the way, eyes practically glued to Garfield and Odie. “ _Mom, stop._ It’s fine.”

She bent to kiss the top of his head, giving his bangs one final swipe. Clearing off the counter, she got out ham and the chopping board.

“Is your sister up?”

Henry shrugged and flipped the page over. “She said her stomach hurt.”

Elizabeth looked up, meeting Philip’s eyes. He set the paper aside and pushed back his chair.

“I’ll go.”

Nodding, she dumped the ham into a bowl and stirred in eggs almost without needing to look, their morning routine all but automatic after twenty years. Footsteps thumped back down the stairs. Elizabeth glanced up from the stove, frowning when Philip shook his head and reached over to take the spatula.

“She wants you.”

Drying her hands, she hurried upstairs, barely pausing to rap on the door frame before sinking onto the edge of Paige’s bed.

“Sweetheart, is it your stomach?” Reaching around, she felt her forehead.

“No,” Paige whispered, curling tighter into a ball.

Waiting a moment, Elizabeth smoothed her hair, using the edge of the sheet to blot perspiration from the back of her neck.

“Cramps?” She said it softly, smoothing her nightshirt.

Paige nodded, eyes still closed.

Rubbing her arm, Elizabeth rose from the bed. “Hang on a sec. I’ll get you something.”

When she returned Paige was flipped in the other direction, knees bent and arms wrapped around her midsection. Flashing her a sympathetic smile, Elizabeth passed over two aspirin and a glass of water, leaning down to plug in the heating pad.

“Worse than last month?”

Paige downed the pills and shrugged, tucking the pad against her stomach. Elizabeth brushed her hair back and fluffed the pillows.

“Do you want me to bring you some toast? Maybe a bowl of oatmeal?”

She closed her eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll feel better once the aspirin kicks in.” Standing, she smoothed her skirt and reached for the empty water glass. “I’ll come up and check on you in a bit.”

Going back downstairs to find breakfast had disappeared save for a single spoonful of eggs and a dirty pan no one was jumping to wash, she poured herself a cup of coffee and stirred in cream. Philip glanced up from the sink.

“Everything okay?” He loaded his plate into the dishwasher.

“Yeah.” Grateful for the momentary reprieve, she glanced over one shoulder, making sure Henry was out of earshot. “Girl stuff, you know?”

“I figured.” Turning to grab Henry’s glass, he gave it a quick rinse. “Okay, buddy, we gotta get to practice. Go pee.”

“I don’t have to.”

“Do it anyway.” He closed the dishwasher and reached for a towel.

Rinsing out the sponge, she ran it over the counter. “So his big game is tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah.” Philip shut off the water. Leaning back against the counter, he took a sip of coffee.

Elizabeth fingered her mug and glanced over at him. “What time do you think you’ll be back?”

“I’m not sure.”

He said it quietly, but absent the anger that had been there before. Looking down, she slid a hand across the counter and covered his fingers with hers. He swallowed, but didn’t move away.

Lifting her chin, she stared at his profile, chest aching at the guardedness in his eyes. Mouth turning down slightly at the corners, it was as though he’d sheltered himself miles away, curled up in a ball of hurt he never wanted her to see. Setting her coffee aside, she reached up to touch his chin, fingertips tracing the soft cleft in its center before gently sliding to his cheek. Philip closed his eyes, hand tensing where it gripped the counter.

He straightened when the toilet flushed down the hall, dumping his coffee down the sink. “You ready to go, champ?”

She didn’t fight him. Turning to the window so Henry wouldn’t see her upset, she flipped on the water.

“Bye, Mom.”

“Bye,” she called over one shoulder, careful to keep her voice steady.

Philip paused in the doorway, pain etched in every line of his face as they stared back at one another. She looked away before he could, not allowing her shoulders to slump until at last the door shut behind them. 

 

* * *

 

Their lowest point had come the month before Paige was born. A slow descent into misery, it was difficult looking back later to say if anything had truly gotten worse, or simply that the weight of her unhappiness had finally become impossible to ignore, bearing down ever harder on her shoulders until she could barely stand to get out of bed in the morning. Sick at the thought of what was coming, there was no escape in sight, the baby she’d never wanted sealing her forever to a life that grew more intolerable by the day.

Only needling her growing sense of dread and desperation was Philip’s poorly concealed excitement at the prospect of _the baby_. Forced to watch the same gooey, dreamy-eyed expression spread over his features whenever they passed a mother with an infant in a carriage at the supermarket or walked past frilly, pastel displays at the department store, it was all she could do to keep her lip from curling in disgust. She’d made little secret of her annoyance at the demeaning way he asked fifteen times a day if she was feeling all right, hovering too close and treating her like a helpless, pregnant cow whose only job was to safely bear his young.

Falling asleep early one afternoon to the dull patter of rain, she was jerked awake by the sound of banging upstairs. Back aching, she shifted on the couch. Something clunked heavy and metallic against the floor. Glaring at the ceiling, she rose unsteadily from the cushions and grabbed her water glass.

It took one glance into the kitchen to ball her free hand into a fist. Flinging the closest dish towel at the mess still left out from lunch, she turned and stalked towards the stairs.

_Meticulous in wiping down a room for prints, his convenient inability to notice splatters left on the counter or a pile of stinking dishes in the sink was nothing short of infuriating._

She frowned at the top of the stairs, the dull thump of furniture being moved coming from the room next to theirs. A suspicion growing stronger in her mind, she quietly pushed open the door.

He was bent over a half-finished crib, ass sticking out as he groped for the screwdriver. Unused parts stood propped against the wall, the floor littered with giant paper bags overflowing with brightly colored toys and a set of miniature sheets bearing ridiculous grinning giraffes and monkeys. Inwardly seething, she set her jaw and stared down at him.

Philip cursed under his breath and fumbled for a dropped screw, jerking when he noticed her standing silently in the doorway. Their eyes locked. Stubborn resignation quickly replacing an initial flash of guilt, he shook his head and rocked back on his heels.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Unable to keep the contempt from her voice, she turned to the large wooden bookshelf that had appeared by the door, picking up one of the pregnancy books he’d for months been less than subtle about leaving out on the coffee table and kitchen counter in the hopes she might find herself suddenly bored and lacking for reading material. Sneering, she tossed it back onto the shelf.

He sighed and flipped the screwdriver over in his hand. “Getting things ready.”

“Is that right?” She folded her arms.

“Yeah.”

Pausing, Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.

“Did you finish coding our report?” she demanded, guessing the answer when he exhaled angrily and looked away.

“It’ll get done.”

She scoffed, shaking her head.

“The same way you were going to clean up the kitchen after lunch?” she reminded him with a raised eyebrow. “They’re expecting us to transmit _tonight_.”

Tossing the crib’s assembly manual aside, Philip brushed off his jeans and stood. “You know as well as I do we won’t get a clear signal in this rain.”

She grunted.

“That’s convenient.”

He shook his head. “I’ll get it done.”

Silence descended. Bending down to pick up one of the large picture books, she flipped open its front cover, frowning at the soft pastel elephants and large, bold type. _Utterly ridiculous_. Blowing out her breath, she dropped it on the floor.

“We have a job to do. You don’t need to be doing _this_.”

He threw up a hand, voice losing patience. “ _One of us_ has to. This is coming in a month whether _you_ want it to or not.”

Hating him all the more, she glared.

“I know that.”

“Then, what?” Brushing past her, he grabbed a different screwdriver from the toolkit. “You won’t do anything to get ready. Won’t talk about names, won’t let me--”

“You’re losing focus.”

He stopped, staring back at her.

Not breaking his gaze, she continued. “It’s for our cover. That’s all.”

_“It’s?”_ He shook his head, expression somehow both incredulous and condescending. “This is our _child_.”

“I wish it wasn’t.”

A truth she had no doubt he already knew, Philip nonetheless looked like he’d been punched in the gut. Breathing hard, he didn’t move, staring back at her as she claimed a silent victory. He shook his head, retrieving the instruction manual from the far wall. Watching him for a moment, Elizabeth leaned against the bookshelf for support.

“How much did it cost?”

He didn’t answer, pointedly ignoring her as he screwed slats into the rails. Setting her jaw, she stooped down to pull a soft, stuffed bear out of the nearest bag.

“We _had_ to get a crib.” His back was to her, voice low. “What were you planning to do, have him sleep downstairs next to the circuit breaker box?”

_“Him?”_ she scoffed.

He didn’t respond, refusing to take the bait.

“We don’t need all this _stuff_.” Stalking across the room, she stared down at him until finally he set the parts aside and rose. “All these books, so many toys . . . I never--”

She didn’t finish, stopping just short of the conversation they’d been expressly forbidden ever to have. Sighing, Philip folded his arms, clearly taking her meaning anyway.

“It’s how they do things here,” he said quietly. “And we’re supposed to blend in, not call attention by raising the one little communist on the block. There’s nothing wrong with a few--”

“A _few_?” she shot back, the question taking on a note of derision. She gestured at all the bags. “This is ridiculous. You must’ve bought everything in the store. We don’t _need_ all of this.”

“Why is it so upsetting to you?” Leaning closer, he narrowed his eyes. “Because you were planning to pretend this wasn’t happening until the day we have to leave for the hospital? And then have something else to blame me for?”

Ignoring the accusation, she stared up at him. “Because it’s wasteful and unnecessary. _Look_ at all of this. We don’t _need_ any of it. A toy or two, maybe a couple of books--”

He grunted and looked down. “Yeah, you’re gonna be a really great mother.”

Her hand flew out before she could think. He made no move to block her, barely even flinched when she slapped him. The imprint of her fingers rising red and angry against his cheek, he stared at her in silence, for the first time in the six years since they’d met leaving her the tiniest bit afraid what he might do in response. Swallowing, she held her ground, refusing to budge until at last the tension in the room became stifling.

Unable to stand the sight of him another second, she turned on her heel and hurried down the stairs, not stopping to get an umbrella or even her coat as she fled out the front door.

 

* * *

 

“It’s not fair.” Paige shook her head and set napkins on the table. “Why does all the bad stuff only happen to us?”

Elizabeth turned over one shoulder, shooting her a knowing look. “Because the men aren’t strong enough to take it.”

Smiling at the answer, Paige reached for the silverware. A door shut in the other room. Elizabeth glanced up when Philip entered, hopeful for the half second it took his eyes to harden. Ignoring her, he turned to Paige.

“How’re you feeling, honey?”

“Better.”

She didn’t say anything through dinner, kept her distance when he and Paige set up the chessboard in the living room. He came up to bed sometime after eleven, glancing her way before closing the door. Stretching, Elizabeth set her book aside.

“You made sure Henry had his toothbrush?”

Philip shrugged and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, not that there’s any hope he’ll use it.” He came around the bed. “Thought about tying a five dollar bill to the handle just to see if he’d notice.”

Starting to smile at the answer, the expression slowly faded as he sank onto the bed with his back to her, took off his watch and set it on the nightstand. Elizabeth looked down.

“I ended it.” She kept the words even, not looking at him. “What more do you want from me?”

The silence stretched out. Finally, he shook his head.

“Nothing.” The answer all but emotionless, it was a faint crease in his forehead that marked it as a lie.

Elizabeth shook her head, voice picking up notes of frustration. “You knew back then we weren’t getting along.” Closing her eyes, she took a breath. “It’s not like we promised each other anything--”

Grunting, he pushed off the bed.

“Yeah.”

She slid from beneath the covers, following him to the bathroom.

“ _Philip_.”

Leaning against the sink, he rubbed his face.

She shook her head, voice hard. “We can’t keep going on this way.”

The room fell silent, a slow drip from the faucet the only interruption. Jaw still clenched, Philip looked away, face twisting through multiple emotions before at last he exhaled and spoke.

“How often?”

He asked it quietly, not looking at her. Taken aback, she frowned.

“What?”

Eyes focused on some point at the far side of the room, he blew out his breath. “How often did you . . . go up there?”

The last thing she’d expected, her stomach dropped like a rock. He turned to stare at her, unflinching, mouth turning down at the corners.

She touched her neck.

“Philip--”

He didn’t move. She looked down, sick at the thought of talking about it.

“Does it matter?”

Swallowing, Philip gripped the counter. “He said you came to,” he closed his eyes, pain twisting his features, “ _see him_ back when you were pregnant with Paige. Told him you--”

He fell silent.

Chest suddenly tight, she looked away. Having been left to guess at any specifics, it was somehow of little surprise to learn Gregory had taken every opportunity to twist the knife, a last desperate attempt to shift the situation in his favor hardly something she could put past him.

Philip took a breath, continuing in a lower voice. “That day we fought. _That’s_ where you went.”

After a moment she took a breath and nodded.

He absorbed the answer in silence, jaw twitching spastically. “So every time you _said_ you had to take the train to Philly, meet with him on some assignment, you were really going up there to--”

He didn’t finish. Fighting to keep her reactions in check, Elizabeth ran a hand through her hair. He edged around her, sinking onto the bed. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she crossed the room and took a tentative seat at his side.

“There were days,” she took a breath, chin quavering at the memory, “where I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. I needed someone I could talk to . . . someone who understood.”

She stopped short of anything more, unwilling to dredge up long-buried memories that would only hurt him to hear spoken aloud, ugly truths they both already knew.

Philip shrugged, voice hoarse.

“Yeah, well.”

Head down, he grunted. Elizabeth touched his arm, throat growing tight when he swallowed and wiped his eyes.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said in a low voice. “Picturing it in your head, torturing yourself with how things could’ve turned out differently for us if only you hadn’t done this or that. But that . . . wasn’t it. Back then you and I just weren’t--”

“Yeah, I get it.”

Pushing off the bed, he strode to the closet to grab the pillow and blanket from the top shelf. Watching him, Elizabeth shook her head, frustration bleeding into her tone.

“I ended it with him the _moment_ things started to change for us.” Looking down, she rubbed her lip. “The moment I realized _we_ could--”

He paused at the door. Shoulders slumped, he took a breath and stepped through it, leaving her alone in the room.

 

* * *

 

The rain had stopped by the time she got off the train from Philly, leaving only a gloomy, gray day in its wake. Feet aching and back sore from hours in an uncomfortable seat, the walk back to the house seemed twice as long as it had the afternoon before. She slowed upon reaching their street, trepidation setting in at the thought of how he would react, made only worse by the unbearable prospect of staying.

And yet, in the end there was no other choice. Personal unhappiness aside, it was her duty to go back and live according to the terms of their established cover, the mission she’d sworn to the Centre to fulfill without balking.

_Zhukov hadn’t chosen her above all the others for the most dangerous and crucial of assignments because she was a spineless coward._

Closing her eyes, she gave the accounting of where she’d been a final, silent rehearsal, conscious not to fidget or touch her face. To her ears, the lie sounded flimsy at best, unconvincing even before the added obstacle of reciting it to someone as thoroughly trained as her to see through untruths, worse still that their years partnered together had lent him far too much practice in reading her tells.

The Pontiac was parked out in the driveway, hood raised. Steeling herself, she walked the final distance up the sidewalk, not reacting when Philip emerged from the garage with an oil pan. He froze in place, a conflict of emotions she couldn’t hope to read warring in his expression as they stared back at one another. Without so much as a word, she lifted her chin and continued on into the house, not ceding an inch.

She paused just inside the door to rest her back, making a grudging note upon glancing into the kitchen that the counter had finally been cleaned.

Only marginally more comfortable after a long shower and fresh clothes, she lay down with a pillow between her knees, desperate to ease the ache. The door shut downstairs, footsteps on the landing shortly following. She closed her eyes and lay perfectly still, uneager to delve into the previous day’s fight.

Much to her relief, he said nothing, merely undressed in silence and started the water running.

After a few minutes it shut off, Philip emerging in a towel. Whatever pretense of modesty they’d once maintained apparently over, he tossed it in the hamper and dressed in plain sight.

She shifted on the bed once he was gone, unable to get comfortable. Giving it another ten minutes, she took a breath and pushed unsteadily to her feet. The door down the hall from theirs was shut. Quietly twisting the handle, she slipped inside.

The finished crib stood against one wall, a wooden rocking chair with plump cushions across from it. She ran her fingers over the bookcase, switching on the short, fat lamp atop it. Most of the bags had been moved to the closet, the large, stuffed bear greeting her with outstretched arms and a soft yarn smile. Frowning, she picked it up, carrying it over to the chair.

The afternoon light had nearly faded in the room’s only window, the glow of the lamp casting lonely shadows against the far wall. Elizabeth closed her eyes and settled back against the cushions, for one weak, private, pathetic moment wishing her mother were there. Not for the first time that day, her chin began to quiver, a familiar burn stinging in her nose as tears threatened to form.

As one year turned to two, memories had begun to blur, the image she could conjure indistinct and fleeting. Thousands of miles apart in both body and spirit, it was as though they stared at one another through a pane of thick glass, the likeness familiar but never enough when she longed to glimpse the clarity in her eyes, the quiet strength exuded in ramrod straight posture and the uncompromising set of her jaw.

Hugging the bear close to her chest, she glanced over the row of books and tower of stacked plastic rings, finding it impossible to imagine that in a month’s time they might be put to use. That there would soon be a baby who bore the features of a man she didn’t love staring up at her from the crib, expecting to be fed and bathed and wiped clean, her duties reduced to little but caring for it day and night for months, _years_ , the moment a reprieve finally seemed within reach imminently followed by a message from the Centre reminding them of their orders to conceive a second.

Setting the bear on an empty shelf, she lifted her chin, waiting a moment for her eyes to clear before going downstairs.

He was at the kitchen table, reading. Back to him, she got out a baking dish and placed it on the counter.

“How about chicken tonight?”

A page flipped. He quietly cleared his throat.

“That’s fine.”

She stuck a can of mushroom soup under the opener, unable to decide if he assumed she’d been with someone else or simply didn’t care. Not questioning it, she tossed the lid in the trash and began spreading creamy sauce over the bottom of the pan.

“I’m sorry.”

The last thing she’d expected him to say, it served both to unsettle and nudge a tendril of guilt, resentment quick to follow. Frowning, she got a package of chicken out of the fridge.

Philip stood and came around the table. Crossing his arms, he leaned back against the sink. She didn’t look at him.

“Are you tired?” He glanced out the window before turning her way. “I could go pick up some of those Chinese noodles you like from the place down on--”

“I’m fine.” Shaking her head, she cut him off. After a moment, she closed her eyes and lowered her voice. “I don’t need you to coddle me.”

Philip stared at her profile, finally nodding.

They said little through dinner, even less once the dishes were washed. She went to bed early, back still aching. Unable to fall asleep by the time he came upstairs, she lay still while he got undressed, wary any sign she was awake might invite unwanted attempts at conversation. He climbed into bed, yawned once and switched off his lamp.

The room bathed in darkness, she shifted just slightly. Philip plumped his pillow, the bed bouncing for a few seconds. Exhausted, she tried again to get comfortable.

_It was no use._

Pressing her lips together, she closed her eyes, all the more ashamed when her throat began to tighten.

“Everything okay?”

She licked her lips, taking enough time to ensure the answer would be steady.

“Yeah.”

Exhaling, she shifted again. He turned over and pushed up on one elbow.

“Do you need another pillow?”

His voice was softer than before. Unable to deny the tiniest bit of relief they weren’t fighting, she shook her head, trying to stretch out to a better position.

“No, it’s my back.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Ever so slowly, he scooted closer, a hand sliding to the back of her waist. Tensing, she froze, within seconds of ordering him to stop when the edge of his thumb worked its way into a particularly tender spot. She closed her eyes and held her breath, afraid to move at the risk of forfeiting the temporary reprieve.

A second hand joined the first. His fingers were warm, strong but gentle in coaxing the ache from her muscles. Finally exhaling, she licked her lips, silently acknowledging too much time had passed to say something, the reluctant admission it felt good for once overriding any protest at his touch.

“Is that the right spot?”

Swallowing, she twisted her hair up off her neck.

“A little lower.”

He complied wordlessly, kneading in a slow, gentle motion. Grateful, she allowed the tension to drain from her shoulders, the lulling blanket of grogginess just starting to descend when a sharp jab caught her hard in the belly.

Stiffening, she inhaled. Philip froze, voice laced with concern.

“Am I hurting you?”

She shook her head, hands moving slowly across her stomach.

“The baby’s kicking.”

Not moving for a span of seconds, he went back to rubbing her back, but she didn’t fail to note his breathing had changed. Immediately suspecting what he wanted, she pressed her eyes closed, uncertain whether to allow it. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

“Can I feel?”

She swallowed, the automatic denial that had countered his every attempt to encroach throughout the pregnancy somehow harder to get out. Steadying herself, she gave him a quick nod, fighting the urge to inch towards the edge of the bed when his hand slid around to rest just below her navel.

A quiet sigh tickled her neck when the next kick came, fingers rotating ever so slightly in something close to a caress. Cringing, she closed her eyes but didn’t react, thankful when his hands returned to the small of her back.

Philip shifted on the mattress, scooting closer to work his way along her spine. Drowsiness finally taking hold, she tucked an arm under her pillow, the warmth of his hands through her nightgown the last thing she noted before drifting off.

 

* * *

 

Philip had already left to pick up Henry from his sleepover by the time she came downstairs, the house unusually quiet for a Sunday morning. Paige kept her nose in a book through breakfast, barely eating ten bites before her cereal grew soggy.

“I’m going to drop by Henry’s game.” Elizabeth cleared their bowls, glancing back over one shoulder. “Will you be okay for an hour or two?”

Tone equal parts pity and tolerance, Paige shook her head and turned the page.

“Sure, Mom.”

Deciding it wasn’t worth the battle, Elizabeth grabbed her purse.

The bus dropped her off a few blocks from the rink, the day unusually windy and cold. Knotting the belt of her coat, she stuck both hands in her pockets and started down the street.

Hockey had always been _their_ domain, an obsession handed down from father to son, and one in which she and Paige had managed to cultivate only a halfhearted interest over the years. Pushing open the door, she brushed back her hair and surveyed the small crowd in the stands. Philip was seated near the top, surprisingly, alone. Pausing to watch him for a moment, she leaned against the wall.

From their first steps across the threshold, home had been a painful, empty place. Never a refuge, it served as a constant reminder there would always be an aching void in her life, passion and comfort things she could never hope to find forced into a lonely marriage with a strange man.

She’d fled from it, escaped to find understanding in the arms of someone who saw her just as she’d always seen herself, who drew strength from the same convictions to which she’d pledged her life. At the time, it felt more right than anything she’d ever known, the two of them against the world, their discreet meetings bolstering her courage in a period of her life she wasn’t sure she could go on.

_Your marriage ain’t real. Your husband ain’t real. None of this domestic shit of yours is real._

Elizabeth swallowed, closing her eyes.

Somehow without her notice, life had changed, a home they’d built for the sake of duty growing fuller by the day. The very thing she’d once sworn never to accept had taken root in a private corner of her heart, Paige, Henry and Philip vital to her in a way Gregory simply couldn’t understand. What was once her only route of escape had become hollow by comparison, incomplete, an empty echo lacking the authenticity of what had slowly blossomed in its place.

_Our family comes first._

At times deeply conflicted for daring to think of _them_ in such a way, she couldn’t deny from the newfound lightness in her chest that it felt right, that something had changed, irrevocably, in the way she saw him. No longer the stranger she’d regarded warily so many years ago, he was the man with whom she’d build a home, the father of her children and the partner she trusted with her life, the transparency of feelings that had once been a source of conflict and discomfort between them affecting her in an entirely different way.

Elizabeth stared at him from across the room, eyes not leaving his face.

It was impossible to determine the precise moment the balance had shifted. Timoshev had been the catalyst, but as she tried to sort through the jumble of emotions plaguing her, she could say with growing certainty, not the cause. It went beyond his willingness to forfeit everything else in order to avenge what had been done to her, surpassing even that he hadn’t hesitated to protect her in the way she’d long ago been abandoned, his rage at the thought of someone hurting her shocking in its intensity. Rather, that in the moment he’d chosen to do so, she’d finally seen what had been there all along.

That he cared for her, unselfishly. That he’d stayed by her side for fifteen years, the two of them alone together in an unfamiliar hell. That no matter how many times she’d pushed him away, his loyalty was to _her_ , and had never wavered, that she came unequivocally first speaking of a passion deeper than she’d once allowed herself to want. That no matter what they should’ve felt or were supposed to mean to one another, something else had formed, a connection that scared her, defied all attempts to temper it, and pounded clearer and stronger in her heart than any feeling she’d ever known.

Philip shook his box of popcorn. Glancing around, he stuck a few kernels in his mouth, face going still when he noticed her there. Locking eyes with him, she climbed into the stands.

Ever measured in his reactions, he shook his head and grabbed another handful of popcorn. She took a seat at his side.

“You, at a hockey game?”

“Thought I’d check it out.” She inclined her chin. “Popcorn this early in the morning?”

He shrugged, the faintest indentation in his cheek suggesting a repressed note of humor.

“Breakfast.”

He poked the box in her direction, eyes still on the game. Smiling, she took some and glanced his way.

“So how’d the sleepover go?”

Philip snorted quietly and shook his head. “’Bout the usual. Not much sleeping. Apparently they stayed up all night playing Atari and seeing who could eat the most Cheetos.”

She smiled, looking down. “He’ll be in a great mood later.”

“Yeah, he’s a little grouchy.” Brushing off his fingers, he reached for his soda. “And his pajamas are kinda orange.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“I’ll wash them.” She waited a moment, studying his profile while he watched Henry skate. Careful to keep her voice soft, she cleared her throat. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” Wincing, he rubbed the back of his neck. “He said he wants one now for his birthday.”

“What, an Atari?” She peered over at him, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “ _He_ does?”

He didn’t look at her, but his cheek twitched. Laughing quietly, she reached for another piece of popcorn. Henry shifted his helmet, waving enthusiastically when he saw her in the stands. Waving back, she glanced over at Philip.

“So what position did you used to play?”

He shrugged and took another sip of soda. “We weren’t ever quite that organized.”

“Mmm.”

Grimacing again, he twisted his neck to one side. Waiting a moment, she drew a hand across the width of his back, fingers finding the tension at the edge of his shoulders. Relieved when he didn’t retreat, she pressed gently into the muscle. Philip closed his eyes and swallowed.

“Right there?”

“Mm-hmm.”

She moved higher up his neck, rubbing in slow circles. Exhaling, he lowered his head to give her better access. She smiled fondly, noting his hair needed cutting, that the curls had grown long enough to brush his collar. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his jaw slacken, the quiet intake of breath that followed an unmistakable sign he wanted her touch.

“Remember when you used to do this for me?” Moving a second hand to his shoulders, she glanced back at the game.

He nodded, some of the tension leaving his forehead.

“Yeah.”

She rubbed for a few more minutes, waiting until the buzzer sounded at the end of the period to lower her hands from his back. Not speaking, he reached down to lace their fingers. She scooted closer. They watched the game in silence, the slow stroke of his thumb calming.

“It was hard for me.” Elizabeth closed her eyes, after a moment nodding. “Being pregnant. With both of them.”

He looked over at her but didn’t respond. She took a breath.

“I never wanted a baby.”

The truth something she suspected he’d long known, it was no less painful to form the words, to admit such a thing aloud in light of what Paige and Henry had come to mean to them both, sickening, sucking the air from her chest as she was forced to relive every time she’d lain awake in the dark, conflicted and filled with resentment so bitter she could taste it on her tongue, debating whether to let the pregnancies go through.

Philip didn’t say anything, hand warm and unwavering where it clasped hers. She looked down, searching for the right words.

“With Paige I felt,” she paused, shaking her head, “angry . . . powerless. But we _had_ to do it.” Shrugging, she stared out across the rink. “They were orders.”

Toying with his fingers for a minute, she rubbed the edge of her mouth. “I was lonely. And the further along it got, the more I missed my mother . . . missed _home_.”

He stared out at the ice, fingers tightening around hers.

“You weren’t the only one who had doubts.” Pausing, he slowly nodded. “Who gave things up.”

She turned to face him, watching his face twist briefly. Shaking his head, he met her eyes.

“I had a girlfriend.”

The statement catching her off guard, she stared for a moment before looking away. A stray shot knocked the puck into the corner, the referee skating over to break up the standoff that threatened to ensue. Clearing her throat, Elizabeth tucked her hair behind one ear.

“Just the one?”

Philip took a breath.

“Yeah.”

Struggling to keep her tone neutral, she pretended to watch the game, the question tainted with a hint of unintended incredulity. “And she . . . were you in _love_ with her?”

His moment of hesitation betrayed the answer before it came. Unsettled by an unfamiliar squeezing in her chest, she lifted her chin.

“Yeah.”

She absorbed the information in silence, not sure how it made her feel. He turned back to the game. Looking down a moment later, she shook her head.

“That day I left . . . I was convinced I couldn’t do it.” She closed her eyes when he glanced her way. “Go through with our assignment. But the moment I held Paige . . . everything changed, you know?”

A minute passed in silence, his hand tightening around hers.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know why things went so wrong for us.” Frowning, she traced his thumb. “You know, back then. But . . . I know I’m not sorry they changed.”

He stared down at their linked hands. Elizabeth licked her lips.

“Do you think we could just . . . start over?”

She turned to face him. His eyes had softened, the pale blue-gray she’d always rather wished Paige or Henry might’ve inherited clear as day, lacking any trace of reservation as he slowly nodded.

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

Pain was all relative, or so they were taught, able to be overlooked by someone strong enough of conviction.

At times there was no other choice but to fight on, an injury suffered in the heat of battle promising capture or death should it be succumbed to, the latter the most devastating of failures, the former promising far worse in its aftermath. Pain could be calculated, meted out blow by blow in order to break the spirit, the only guarantee that it would never stop until the shameful moment of surrender, when devotion was finally overtaken by selfish, personal greed. And perhaps most ironically, in some instances pain was simply an unfortunate inconvenience to be endured.

Gritting her teeth, Elizabeth tucked her chin and gripped the edge of the blanket, every ounce of her strength focused on not crying out. Cold and shaking, she fell back onto the bed, the pillows already soaked in perspiration.

A damp washcloth blotted her forehead, offering the briefest reprieve. Swallowing, she opened her eyes. Philip’s face was lined with worry, hair tousled and shirt sloppily untucked after hours spent pacing the motel room.

“Water?” he asked quietly, reaching for the paper cup on the nightstand when she nodded.

Her fingers shook almost too hard to take it. Allowing him to prop up her shoulders, she took a sip and sank back onto the pillows.

“My feet are cold,” she whispered, trying for what seemed like the hundredth time to resituate herself more comfortably on the lumpy mattress.

Philip hurried over to their bags. Breathing hard, she closed her eyes as another contraction started. The latch popped on her suitcase, something spilling noisily across the floor.

_“Shit.”_

Forcing herself to breathe through the pain, Elizabeth gripped the closest pillow, vowing to kill him if he’d broken anything in her makeup kit. Returning, Philip stared down at her, eyes wide and face white as a sheet. He dropped the socks on the end of the bed and glanced at his watch.

“How long since the last one?”

“Two minutes.” The reply from the far end of the room was thickly accented, but practically indifferent. A newspaper rustled. “Is almost time.”

Unable to respond at the risk of crying out, Elizabeth let her head fall back. Philip waited until the contraction passed to roll on one sock and then the other. Returning to the chair at her side, he drew the washcloth over her face and neck.

“Back?” Voice low, the question was businesslike.

Nodding, she rolled to one side. Philip began to work at the usual spot. She closed her eyes, pushing sweaty strands of hair away from her neck.

“Lower?”

She rubbed her forehead, struck by a sudden flash of gratitude that he hadn’t tried to placate her with empty promises everything would be okay or condescending reminders she was strong enough. Taking a few deep breaths, she twisted her hair up into a knot.

“No, right there.”

Half a dozen contractions later, the doctor went to the bathroom to wash his hands. Elizabeth scooted up to the pillows, shaking from head to toe. Not uttering a word, Philip vacated the chair. She glanced over at him, unable to remember the last time she’d seen him eat or drink anything. Meeting her eyes, he stepped off to the side as the doctor returned to examine her.

She focused on the tacky artwork hanging from the far wall as hands did their business, her stomach tightly knotted by the time he stepped away.

“Is time to go.” He wagged a finger at her. “Do not push.”

Rising, Philip turned to her.

“You ready?”

Forcing any sign of fear from her voice, she frowned and nodded. “Did you get everything?”

“It’s all packed. I’ll load the car, come back and sweep the room. Do you need to use the toilet?”

“Yeah.”

He helped her out of bed, keeping a hand close to her shoulder as she crept unsteadily to the bathroom. Hovering outside when she emerged minutes later, he held out a robe and guided it to her arm.

“Everything’s in the trunk. Heater’s running.” He helped her over to the bed and went to wipe down the bathroom.

“Did he leave?” She glanced towards the window.

“Mm-hmm.”

“He was strange.”

“Yeah, a little.”

Philip threw the last towel in the duffel and zipped it. She gripped his hand, carefully making her way out of the motel room and down to the car.

The highway was dark and mostly empty, intermittent flashes of light from streetlamps washing across the backseat as she tried to keep from pushing. Philip pulled into the hospital parking lot and glanced back at her. Unable to speak through a blinding wall of pain, she clenched her teeth, tears forming in her eyes. Setting the brake, he leaned over the seat.

“Are you--?”

“You have to,” the sound that emerged halfway between a grunt and a moan, she took shallow breaths, letting her head fall back on the seat, “make sure they . . . don’t let them give me--”

“I’ll take care of it,” he murmured, the slight shake of his head a subtle reminder it was at least the tenth time she’d brought it up. He pocketed the keys, voice softening. “Just like we agreed.”

Meeting his eyes, she nodded. He pushed the door open, a wave of icy air hitting her before it slammed shut.

Not insurmountable, the obstacles before them had necessitated careful planning. Having been warned by the Centre it was critical the birth occur in one of the local hospitals to avoid any particular scrutiny being given to the paperwork, they’d had to contend with the risk her English might slip while under sedation.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, her mother’s face, not for the first time that night, swimming hazily in her mind. Quickly wiping the tear that trickled down the edge of her nose, she gripped the seat as another contraction threatened to rip her in two. From somewhere in the distance, she caught Philip’s voice, louder than necessary and flavored with an uncharacteristic note of guileless panic.

“--and she’s allergic to . . . oh _God_ , I can’t even remember the name. Our doctor went down to Florida for the weekend. He said he was just going to have to deliver without anything. I think maybe we should’ve left sooner but I couldn’t get the car to start and--”

The door was thrust open. Gasping for breath, she fell back on the seat, limp as a rag as strange, cold hands pushed her nightgown out of the way.

“Is she okay? What should I--?”

“Help me get her into the wheelchair,” the nurse directed, gesturing to her. “Honey, you’ve got to come towards me now.”

Elizabeth gritted her teeth, inching her way across the seat as Philip came around to help her from the other side.

 

* * *

 

It was Zhukov who’d once told her strength was merely a measure of devotion. That the most daunting of tasks served to show the bearer the depths of their own fortitude. It was his voice she clung to in the moments her courage wavered, and her mother’s face. Calm and sure, she stared down at her, their eyes locked through the clack of metal instruments and drone of brusque instructions passed from unfamiliar American doctors and nurses, never doubting for a second that her _Nadya_ would persevere, much as _she_ had in the same task some two and a half decades before.

She lost track of time long before it was over. Collapsing back on the delivery table at the first gurgling cry, she was informed she’d had a girl, the baby whisked off to the nursery before she could get so much as a look. Exhausted, she was shortly afterwards wheeled into a private room, a tiny bundle with a soft pink hat brought in by one of the nurses.

“Here you go.” Smiling, the plump, older woman placed the baby in her arms. “Your husband is just about beside himself. I think he’s shaken hands with everyone in the waiting room . . .”

Elizabeth barely heard her.

Face pink and perfectly clear, she had two delicate wisps for eyebrows, the smallest fingers imaginable curled into two miniature fists. Not precisely favoring either her or Philip more than the other, she could see him in her ears and the shape of her eyes, the familiar curve of her own mouth copied in tiny, rosy lips. But it was the recognition from where she’d inherited the strong, straight nose and finely shaped chin that drew tears to her eyes.

Distractedly wiping them, Elizabeth smoothed a wrinkle in the blanket, almost afraid to peek under the cap to see if she had any hair. The door handle quietly twisted.

Face pale and slack, Philip stared at her from the doorway, gaze quickly sinking to the pink bundle in her arms. Hurrying over to the bed, he sat down ever so carefully on the edge, leaning closer to tuck back one corner of the blanket. He sighed in a quiet rush, the single, tentative finger that reached out to touch the back of the baby’s hand dwarfing it.

Sniffing, Elizabeth wiped her nose on the back of her wrist. She carefully drew one fingertip along the velvety skin of her cheek, pulling back in surprise at the unexpected yawn that followed. Philip swallowed, voice breaking.

“She’s . . . beautiful.” He cleared his throat. “Paige?”

Distracted, Elizabeth nodded. Philip dug a finger under the edge of the blanket, searching for toes.

“Be careful.” Frowning, she lowered her voice, arms tightening automatically. “You’ll wake her up.”

He didn’t answer. Reluctantly appeased when Paige didn’t stir, Elizabeth edged back the tiny hat, noting only a fine, wispy layer of hair. Philip touched the tip of one ear, the small sound in the back of his threat conveying reverent, unvoiced wonder.

She glanced at him. “Do you want to hold her?”

He bent closer to lift Paige from her arms as delicately as if they were handling explosives. Elizabeth pushed her hair behind one ear, leaning forward to watch. Philip’s breathing grew labored, something changing in his face.

“I didn’t . . . think she’d be this small.”

He wiped his eyes. Elizabeth looked away, realizing in that moment she’d never seen him cry. Face going slack, she stared down at Paige, the last thing she’d expected to feel clawing its way through her chest.

“We can’t ever tell her.”

Philip lifted his head. Looking him in the eye, she took a breath and continued.

“About us. Why we’re here.” She shook her head. “About any of it. I don’t want her to ever be a part of this.”

He stared back at her.

_“Promise me.”_

Nodding, Philip reached for her hand. She let him take it, their eyes locked.

“Swear it,” she repeated, fingers tightening in his.

His thumb slowly traced the back of her knuckles, voice solemn. “I promise.”

Leaning back against the pillows, she reached out to take Paige. Philip set her carefully in her arms, propping himself across her lap for a better view. Making a quick check of the door, Elizabeth lowered her voice.

“You were good,” she said after a moment, offering a half smile when he glanced up. “As the panicked father.” Pausing, she looked down. “I was glad you were there.”

Philip made a face, cheek twitching.

“I was only half pretending. Towards the end there, I was starting to think we should’ve left a few minutes earlier.”

For once resisting the urge to make a face at his persistent attempts at humor, she merely nodded.

“Mm-hmm.”

Her stomach growled. He raised an eyebrow and checked his watch. “Six-thirty. You want me to sneak you in a doughnut?”

Only briefly tempted to refuse, she nodded. “And coffee.”

“Sure.”

Bending down, he pressed a single, soft kiss to Paige’s forehead, smiling foolishly before grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. He shrugged into it and stepped into the hall, quietly closing the door.

“Vanilla crème,” she called after him in a whisper, glancing down worriedly when Paige stirred.

He poked his head back through the doorway and winked at her.

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, guys, teeth and bed.”

Philip retrieved the checkers box from under the table, steadying it for Henry to knock a lopsided tower of captured pieces inside. Managing to catch most of them, he grabbed the one stray before it could roll under the chair.

“Ker-pow!” Henry threw himself onto the couch in a heap, squirming to the floor when Philip tickled him.

_“Teeth,”_ he growled, failing to look truly menacing. 

Smiling, Elizabeth reached for their glasses and nodded to Paige. “You get the plates.”

Paige dumped the crumbs in the trash and brushed off her hands. Glancing over at her, Elizabeth squeezed soap onto the sponge.

“Feeling better today?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She shrugged and got a clean dishtowel from the drawer. “I wish it didn’t have to happen every month.”

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully, handing her the first glass to dry.

“You’ll get used to it.”

Paige didn’t answer, taking more time than was necessary in putting the glass away.

“Mom, you know Matthew?”

She practically blurted it, voice rising in pitch at the end. Careful not to react, Elizabeth handed over the next glass.

“From across the street?”

Not looking at her, Paige fidgeted with the towel. “I think . . . maybe I like him.”

“I see.” She handed her the last glass and rinsed out the sponge, fighting to keep the concern from her tone. “And what is it that you like about him?”

Paige shrugged, cheeks burning. “I don’t know. I just . . . _like_ him, you know?”

“Right.”

Trying not to frown, she managed at the last moment to turn the expression into a quizzical smile. Paige put the glass away, wiping her hands before hurrying from the room. Staring after her for a moment, Elizabeth headed upstairs.

“’Night.”

Philip turned off the light and closed the door to Henry’s room. Offering him a half smile, she slipped by. He was seated on the edge of the bed when she came out of the bathroom, sliding into his shoes.

“Paige okay?”

“Yeah.” She paused at the dresser to take off her earrings, raising an eyebrow at him in the mirror. “I think she may have a little crush.”

She inclined her head towards the street. Philip frowned.

“The Beeman kid?” Standing, he wrinkled his nose. “You sure?”

“She told me.” Shrugging, she set the earrings in her jewelry box and smoothed her hair back.

“Well, that complicates things.”

“Yeah.” Taking a breath, she looked down. “I think we should take the afternoon off tomorrow.”

Philip glanced up, brow furrowed. “What, for the conference over on--”

She lifted her chin, forcing the rest out before she could lose the nerve. “I got us a room. At the Willard Hotel downtown.”

Halfway into his coat, he froze. She stared back at him, stomach jumping nervously. Eyes softening, Philip slowly nodded.

“What time?”

“I thought noon.” Voice growing steadier, she ran one hand over the bed rails. “Will you come?”

His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“Yes.”

She took a step forward, sliding her hands into his. For a moment, neither of them moved. Slowly tracing the back of her fingers, Philip drew her forward, hands sliding to her back.

Snug against his chest, she exhaled. Fingers shaking, she touched the button at the top of his shirt, carefully unfastening it. He didn’t move, motionless but for the rise and fall of his chest as she slowly pressed a kiss to the base of his throat.

The fingers trailing through her hair hitched momentarily. Lowering her head, she repeated it, lips picking up the flutter of his pulse through the warm skin of his neck. He sighed and gripped her shoulders, voice the slightest bit rough.

“I have to go.”

Letting her lips hover a breath from his skin just a second longer, she raised her eyes to meet his. Philip squeezed her hands, holding her gaze for what seemed an eternity before turning for the door.

 

 

 


	4. In Control

The morning they were due to sit for a family photograph, war broke out in the Jennings household.

A comparatively peaceful Sunday, Henry had just gotten out two glasses and the square metal canister of Quik when a drawer slammed upstairs. Father and son glanced at the ceiling. Unfazed, Henry closed the heavy fridge door and skated across the kitchen floor in his socks. Philip frowned and set the paper aside, reaching over to rescue the milk carton before it could get dropped.

“I’ll pour. You stir.”

Henry popped the lid off the chocolate mix and craned to check the doorway. Turning back to him, he leaned closer, eyes hopeful.

“Two spoons?”

Philip winked. Henry grinned and measured them each out a generous helping, sloshing milk enthusiastically against the side of the glass while he stirred. Accepting his, Philip clinked their glasses, took a gulp and shook out the classifieds.

Muffled voices registered from upstairs, a frustrated whine from Paige quickly answered by a shorter, sharper retort. Philip shook his head and flipped the page, catching vague snippets of an argument about hair and coordinating outfits. Oblivious, Henry twirled a straw through his milk, leaning down to blow bubbles.

“Hey.”

Clumps of chocolate powder dotting his lip, Henry looked up. Philip lowered his voice.

“Whatever she lays out for you, just put it on.” He made a face and nodded towards the ceiling, hooking a thumb between them. “You and I don’t care anyway, right?”

Henry shrugged. Brow furrowed, he spun his straw around the glass, slurping up chocolate bubbles. Footsteps clomped on the stairs. Paige appeared in the doorway seconds later and stalked over to the table.

“Hi, honey--”

“Dad, does this look all right?” She lifted her chin and crossed her arms, in that moment bearing a remarkable resemblance to her mother. “Can I wear it?”

Frowning, Philip eyed the blouse and pants, failing to find anything particularly objectionable, a fact which would matter little if he dared say so. He tilted his head and wrinkled his nose.

“What’d Mom say?”

Lip quivering in obvious frustration, Paige let out a huffy sigh and turned on her heel. Philip took another swig of chocolate milk and poked around for the sports section. Elizabeth’s voice traveled in from the hall.

“Go put on that sweater I bought you, the one you said you _had_ to have.”

She stormed into the kitchen, hair up in rollers. Freezing just inside the door, she set her jaw, marched over to grab the milk off the table and put it back in the fridge. Philip glanced up, not missing the look she shot him.

Folding the paper, he reached for Henry’s glass. “C’mon, champ. Time to get dressed.”

“But I’m not done--”

“The appointment’s in an hour.” Elizabeth snatched both glasses from him, frowning at the thick layer of chocolate sediment skulking at the bottom.

Clearing his throat, Philip popped the lid back on the Quik. He rose from the table, stuck the canister in the cabinet and followed her to the sink. Running a hand softly along the back of her waist, he bent to kiss the small freckle centered on her left shoulder.

“Sorry.”

Elizabeth shook her head, voice lower. “Paige is being impossible. You’re both still in your pajamas. Henry’s covered in chocolate and I just finished pressing his clothes. If he gets them dirty--”

Philip reached around her and flipped on the water. “You go get ready. I’ll take care of it.”

She rinsed the glasses a final time and stuck them on the rack, giving him a pointed look.

“Your clothes are out on the bed.”

Shutting off the spigot, she exited the room without another word. Philip grunted under his breath, but didn’t respond, finally pushing away from the counter.

_They were even._

He was dressed by the time she emerged from the bathroom. Hair floating around her face in soft waves, she stopped at the dresser for a spray of perfume and hurried over to straighten his collar. He sighed and squeezed her arm.

“It’ll be fine.”

She glanced up at him, expression smoothing just a little. “Is Henry dressed?”

“And waiting on the couch with instructions not to move or we won’t stop for ice cream on the way home.”

Unfastening a button, Elizabeth shook her head. “ _Ice cream?_ There was enough chocolate mix in that milk to keep him bouncing off the walls all afternoon. The last thing--”

“I’ll take him down to the park later,” he interrupted softly, waiting until she met his eyes. “Let him run it off.”

She nodded, finishing with his collar and giving his sweater a quick brush at the shoulders and chest. Philip studied her face, eyes drifting to the edge of her lips.

“You look nice.”

Turning to grab her purse off the bed, she raised an eyebrow. “Ready?”

The sitting itself went without incident. Clearly pleased with how the photos turned out, Elizabeth hung the main portrait in their bedroom, framing smaller pictures of the kids for the bookshelf by the fireplace, and at his request, one of the four of them for his desk at the office.

Henry, being Henry, had grinned into the camera, unabashed. Paige’s expression was less certain, the quiet insecurities of adolescence that had recently begun to emerge evident in a smile self-conscious enough to seem forced.

At his left and their family’s center was Elizabeth. None of them slouching, her posture was a fraction straighter, the dark red sweater and ribbon knotted at her throat unable to mask the steel of her resolve. Somehow ever graceful whether assembling a row of peanut butter sandwiches or helping him bury a cache of ammunition, with her hair cascading softly over one shoulder and a slight smile at her lips, she made the breath catch in his throat.

Only looking at it later could he see the guardedness in her eyes, that even as she sat surrounded by the three of them, she was somewhere else, miles away.

Initially warmed by the normality of it all, it was after a week passed that he recognized disquiet beginning to set in, its source the last thing he would’ve ever expected. It was there in the innocence of Henry’s shrug as they drank chocolate milk together on a lazy morning, lurking in the shadows of a home held up by walls bearing tiny handprints pressed into plaster molds, and a refrigerator covered in cherished, scribbled drawings, their subjects barely identifiable as duck or horse. And most of all it stared back at him in Paige’s nervous smile, her largest concern which sweater would look best, neither she nor Henry having any idea how close they came, every day, to having it all snatched away.

_Everything had changed._

A truth they’d pushed down in their minds from the start, too guilty to dwell on it for long, the bleakness of their future could no longer be ignored. It would take one mistake. A call traced. A source discovered and turned. A tail missed after one too many sleepless nights. Caution and skill notwithstanding, they couldn’t eliminate every risk, the danger they would eventually be caught in the wrong place the moment an FBI team moved in looming each time they slipped from the house while Paige and Henry slept upstairs.

She would be taken from him, the last image he would ever have one of her being forced to the ground, a knee smashed into her back as handcuffs were snapped on. Thrown in a cell far from anyone squeamish enough to object to method, they would work her slowly, what would be done in an attempt to extract information sickening for him to picture. She would sooner die than break, he knew, a truth that was of little comfort in light of the knowledge there would be no end to it, no reprieve. The soft, freckled shoulder he watched rise and fall as she curled beside him in bed each night would be bloodied, bruised, her face frozen in a dead mask of pain.

It was the choice they’d made, a mission not only agreed to, but asked for, a long line of candidates turned down in favor of their selection, both of them fully understanding the risks. The same could not be said of the two innocent lives they’d doomed to the same fate.

Their most selfish act, what had been comparatively simple to consent to when the idea of children was a vague, hypothetical notion had slowly come to haunt him far more than anything they’d ever done. Created not due to shared love or even an accident on a night of sloppy, drunken passion, Paige and Henry’s very existence had been orchestrated by a meeting of officers back in Moscow, purposefully calculated that they might be used as a shield.

Their end would be worst of all. Whether they watched him and Elizabeth dragged away or tentatively answered a late night knock at the door from an FBI officer, Henry peeking out from the shadow of Paige’s elbow, eyes wide and dark, the truth would destroy them, any happy memories of the childhood they’d known shattered by the magnitude of lies lovingly whispered every night since their birth.

The image of it followed him, day and night, solidifying the feeling growing stronger in his gut with each passing day, every corny joke parried across the dinner table and impulsive hug thrown around his waist before school scoring a vague and distant oath he’d sworn at eighteen with unmistakable signs of fracture.

 

* * *

 

He saw the Soviet Union for the last time early on a July morning. Low clouds blanketed miles of forest in a quiet sunrise of gray and gold, a final glimpse of familiar smokestacks and spires in the distance hard to make out as the train slowed at the border crossing. Leaving the country separately, he and Elizabeth arrived in West Germany days apart on falsified passports.

“ _Danke schön_.”

Glancing around the hotel entryway, Philip tucked the newspaper under one arm and stuck both hands in his pockets. The morning was cool and overcast, rain dripping off awnings and tree branches after a round of overnight storms. Making a quick check of the street, he headed east towards the park.

Frankfurt was louder than he’d expected, its streets crowded with motorists and pedestrians. Construction crews seemed to be at work on every other block, apartment buildings and tall, modern glass towers going up at the city’s center. Much of it clearly rebuilt after the war, it was all somehow . . . _brighter_ than descriptions managed to convey, the marketplace packed with stands selling fat rounds of cheese and row upon row of produce. Some of the fruit he’d never seen outside of pictures, the selection of vegetables and meat available for anyone to purchase equally impressive. Heavy planters of flowers and fresh crisp curtains hung outside shop windows, bulging shopping bags hanging from arms and bicycle handlebars suggesting a level of prosperity hard to imagine.

But most surprising were all the cars. Starting just outside his hotel, a line of Volkswagens, Saabs and Fiats hugged the curb, so many it seemed impossible. They’d trained on various models at the Academy, under careful supervision learning to strip each one down to parts, to disable them in ways not easy to find, and to break in and start them using only the wires below the ignition.

Suppressing a smile, Philip shook his head.

_He could do it in thirty seconds flat._

Quickly mastering the mechanics, the real challenge had come in learning tactics. Nothing coming close to the rush of racing at high speeds through the training courses, they were taught to execute tight turns in forward drive and reverse while avoiding obstacles and evading pursuers, highest marks earned on his final examinations meriting a commendation for his file as well as a personal congratulation from Colonel Zhukov.

Philip paused at the corner, craning to get a better look at a Mercedes-Benz as it drove past.

_They would be expected to get one for their own personal use once they got to the States. Something large and American enough to fit in, maybe even with a convertible top._

Taking advantage of the excuse to glance both ways at the street, he crossed into the park. So early in the day, it was nearly empty, a dismal sky and muddy trails encouraging fewer visitors than he’d counted on previous trips. Making a lap around the path, he checked his watch and took a seat on the bench next to the pond, their planned meeting a week overdue.

It was another five minutes before the bob of a thick ponytail caught his eye. Unfolding the newspaper, he shook it out and leaned back against the bench. She slowed at the far side of the water and paused to light a cigarette, turning in a casual circle anyone else would’ve pegged as a genuine attempt to admire the scenery. Philip peered over the edge of the paper, unable to help doing the same.

She was pretty; that much hadn’t escaped his notice. Her figure pleasingly slender, the fine angles of her face looked like they belonged on a doll. The cloudy morning had darkened her hair, but in the right lighting it was almost the color of honey, tumbling long and straight halfway down her back in a heavy tassel he’d more than once fought the urge to touch.

Waiting until a mother and two children wandered back down the path, she took a drag on her cigarette and made a slow turn towards him. He pretended to read, checking to make sure they were alone. Elizabeth sat down at his side and crossed her legs.

“What happened?”

Not looking at her, he turned the page. “They detained me at Customs. Pulled me out for questioning.”

She turned to stare at his profile, quickly looking away. Raising the cigarette between two fingers in the carefree American style they’d practiced in training, she inhaled. After a slow breath, she tapped it against the bench.

“Do you think we’re blown?”

He shrugged, keeping his voice low.

“They let me sweat it out while they went through my bags . . . brought a second guy in to question me about my ‘trip’ to Leningrad, make sure the answers lined up.” He glanced behind her, keeping careful note of where everyone within sight was standing. “It could’ve been random, but I had to make sure they didn’t put someone on me, risk the two of us being linked if they had.”

“Yes.” She shook her head, staring out at the water. “You were right.”

Dropping the butt, she ground it under her toe. The wind gusted, splattering fat raindrops on the newspaper. Philip folded it up and leaned back to stretch his neck, checking around them.

“Did you have any trouble?”

A note of wry humor finally peeked through at the corner of her mouth. “He wished me luck finishing my dissertation, then stamped my passport.”

Philip grunted under his breath. “I guess it helps being pretty.”

The silence stretched out. Clearing her throat, Elizabeth lifted her chin.

“Did you get the tickets?”

“Yesterday. They’re for tomorrow, early afternoon.” He glanced her way. “Where are you staying?”

“It isn’t far from here.” She smoothed a stray piece of hair behind one ear. “About a mile from the river. I made contact with Vesper, got our new passports. They look good.” She studied his profile. “Did you find a barber?”

Cheek twitching, he shook his head.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to keep the beard?”

Hoping he’d finally earn a smile, instead she frowned and lowered her eyes. He cleared his throat, picking the newspaper back up.

“You brought mine?”

“Yeah.”

He waited until she noticed the passport sitting on the bench. She popped the latch on her purse, pretending to search for lipstick and a small mirror while stealthily exchanging one false document for the other. He quietly pocketed it.

“And . . . they sent this.”

Putting the lipstick away, she set a plain gold ring on the bench and edged it towards him. The silence for the first time uncomfortable, Philip cleared his throat.

“So what do you think?” Slipping the ring into his pocket, he glanced over at her.

Elizabeth met his eyes, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Of all of this.” He inclined his head towards the towers in the distance. “What you’ve seen here.”

Nodding, she looked down. “It’s shocking, seeing it in person. There is . . . so much.”

“Yeah.” Philip shook his head.

Elizabeth smoothed her skirt. “What about you?”

He shrugged, trying to think of how to answer. “It’s . . . _different_ , that’s for sure. Everything seems so new. Rebuilt. No sign the war ever happened.” He paused. “The beer’s pretty good.”

She turned to stare at him, something he couldn’t read flashing briefly across her face. Folding the paper, he made a last check of their surroundings.

“So we’ll meet at the train station tomorrow? Ten o’clock?”

Elizabeth nodded. Rising without another word, she slipped her purse over one shoulder and left him alone on the bench.

 

* * *

 

_I got us a room at the Willard Hotel downtown._

Swallowing, Philip punched the button. The ancient elevator lurched into motion, starting a slow and ungainly climb towards the third floor. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the wall, not for the first time that morning distracted in recalling the precise spot her lips had brushed his throat. The . . . _tickle_ of it. Tentative, the way she’d tasted his skin.

The elevator ground to a halt. Stepping into the hallway, he popped a couple of Tic Tacs in his mouth and gave them a quick crunch, almost able to hear her admonition he was going to teach Paige and Henry to ruin their teeth. Coming to the appointed door, he rapped softly.

Footsteps sounded from inside. Fading away, they came closer only to pause, a few seconds of hesitation passing before the door opened. He looked up just as she did, taking in her expression the moment their eyes locked. Features soft, her lips were slightly parted, something in the wideness of her eyes not unlike the way he’d caught her watching him before at Henry’s game, clear with an unfiltered honesty that couldn’t help but coax trust.

He stepped inside. Her head dipped a fraction of an inch, shyness that had been a rarity before evident in the way her mouth briefly quivered, fingers trailing a nervous path through her hair. She shut the door, obediently following when he took her hands.

Flashing her a brief smile, he backed into the room. She came along, barely able to look at him, fingers shifting in his with what seemed close to uncertainty or fear. Eyes never leaving her face, he slowed as they neared the bed. Elizabeth shook her hair back, finally lifting her chin.

The midday light coming in through the windows cast her eyes a deep, clear gray, complexion pale and smooth. Lifting a hand, he carefully tucked back the swaying curtain of hair masking her cheek, watching her lower her gaze, mouth turning down a little at the corners. Fingers tracing the curve of her jaw, he studied her face.

Time had lent only grace to her features. Cheeks narrower and chin pointed with a hint more delicacy, she was even lovelier than the day they’d met, faint lines at the corners of her eyes tugging the memory of rare smiles earned as they cuddled on the couch with Henry and Paige, the curve of her mouth soft, familiar in its contours.

Swallowing, he stared down at the small mark on the edge of her lip. She wasn’t fond of it, he knew, attempts to hide or minimize its existence with makeup all the more endearing in light of how thoroughly he’d been captivated. Smile having long since faded, he again stroked her cheek, wanting to kiss her on precisely that spot.

Moving slowly, he guided up her chin. Mouth giving a brief twitch, she stared back at him, desire growing warm and soft in her eyes. He slowly leaned forward. Breathing shallow, she didn’t move when he made contact, mouth pliant and deliciously supple as he applied the slightest pressure to her upper lip.

Encountering no resistance, he let the kiss linger, waiting to break it until she lowered her chin. She met his gaze, eyes softening as he gently caressed the underside of her jaw. They fluttered closed, a slight tilt of her head all that was needed in encouragement. Their lips touched again, the hesitant brush of fingertips fumbling cool and trembling across his cheek.

A hand curled at the back of his neck, her mouth at last opening, head tipping to one side. Tongue greeting hers as it crossed the invisible barrier into the shared space between their mouths, he slid both hands to her waist, guiding but not pushing, for once needing her to come wholly to him. Injuries unintentionally committed, what had been easy to perceive as awkwardness over their early attempts at sex had masked something far more sinister, understanding coming too late that their every encounter had felt forced upon her, acquiescence for the sake of following orders pushing deeper wounds she hadn’t allowed anyone to see.

_Never again._

Hands found their way under his coat. Pulling away a little, he touched her cheek, meeting her eyes for a long moment before reaching up to take it off. She let her head dip again, hair dangling forward to obscure her mouth. Fingers a little clumsy, she unfastened the buttons on his sweater, breathing becoming just detectably irregular. Eyes never leaving her face, he slid it off and reached for her hands, careful to keep his voice soft.

“Do you want some champagne?”

She let him toy with her fingers for a moment, finally meeting his eyes and nodding. They parted, him going over to the stand to uncork the bottle while she took a seat on the edge of the bed. Unzipping her boots, she slipped them off and tucked her feet under. He poured champagne into two glasses, passing one over to her.

“Thank you.” Taking a sip, she looked down.

Philip sank onto the bed, watching as she fingered the stem of her glass.

“You okay?”

He said it quietly. Elizabeth pushed her hair behind one ear and raised the champagne to her lips.

“Yeah.”

Her brow furrowed ever so slightly as she said it, the nod that followed not particularly convincing. Switching the glass to his other hand, he reached over to rub her arm. Fidgeting for a moment, Elizabeth took a breath.

“I wasn’t ever,” she paused, closing her eyes, “ _nervous_ before. It’s never been . . . it wasn’t ever--”

She didn’t finish, the word forming in the back of his mind all the same.

_Real._

Silence descended. He took another drink. She sipped from her glass, head bowed.

“This time,” she shook her head, frowning as if she couldn’t find the words, “I wanted it to be . . . _different_. I wanted it to be . . .”

She trailed off, lines beginning to show in her face. Nodding, he reached for her hand. Their fingers laced, some of the tension gradually smoothing in her forehead. She lifted the glass to her lips. Slowly stroking her thumb, he took another swallow, a glance hazarded a beat later revealing she’d turned to stare at their linked hands.

Expression softer, she raised her eyes to his and rose from the bed. Setting her glass on the nightstand, she reached for his, gently taking his free hand and drawing him to his feet. Their eyes met. Lifting her chin again, she curled fingers into his hair, their mouths coming together more easily the second time, fusing in a link that was snugly fitted as it was unquestionably mutual. Pulling away just as her breathing began to grow heavy, Elizabeth lifted her eyes, not breaking his gaze as she slowly began unbuttoning her blouse.

It was enough the same as before to draw a fleeting remembered twinge of ache, the flush in her cheeks and trembling arousal evident in soft movements of her chin marking it as entirely different in her estimation. She let it fall to the floor, looking up at him, lips soft and parted as she stepped forward to begin undressing him. He didn’t move, letting her do it, drinking in the cool tickle of fingers against his chest, feeling them explore, stroke a little as she removed his shirt, the novelty of being touched showing little sign of waning. Closing his eyes, he allowed a private moment just to be immersed in the sensation of her hands on his skin, skimming over his arms, sliding down to unbuckle his belt.

Wanting _him._

Swallowing, he let his head tip forward, their foreheads meeting as he reached down to unzip her jeans. She tipped her chin up to be kissed, their hands working in silence, clothes left strewn across the floor until it was just the two of them standing together beside a waiting bed. Closing her eyes as he leaned closer, she lifted fingers to his chest, a small waft of breath warming his ear as he bent to kiss the juncture of her clavicle and throat.

They climbed into bed without speaking, Elizabeth getting into position flat on her back. Stretching out alongside her, he slowly moved closer, slipping a hand to her cheek. She stared up at him, a little uncertain, the rise and fall of breath gaining speed as he caressed the point of her chin. Waiting until her lips parted in anticipation, he pressed his mouth softly to hers. Hands slid up his chest, arms curling around his neck, a knee working its way up his thigh in an invitation. Mouths still linked, he slid a hand down from her navel, thumb brushing past the crease of her leg. She sighed against his lips when it settled in place, head momentarily falling back on the pillow.

He lowered his lips to her neck. Exhaling, Elizabeth curled fingers into his hair, a hint of perfume tickling his nose, her skin cool and trembling as he slowly kissed his way up the underside of her throat. Reaching her jaw, he paused, watching her mouth open in anticipation. Lips hovering close, he ghosted over her chin, their breaths mingling, waiting until at last she opened her eyes.

“I’m ready.”

She whispered it barely loud enough to hear, scooting towards the headboard and opening her knees. Hair fanned out around her face, she stared up at him, fingers soft in tracing his lips, gliding over the indentation in his chin. He moved over her, eyes trained on her face. She drew a shaky breath when he pushed inside her, mouth coming open just a little, their noses brushing. He balanced himself on both elbows, face inches from hers, memorizing every twitch of her mouth and unsteady lift of her chin as he began to move.

Fingers crawled up his arms, soft pants of breath wafting against his lips with each thrust. Her eyes closed, his not straying an inch. Their hips moving tightly in sync, she guided his mouth down, face slack, pleasure written in the errant, darting slip of her tongue. Noses glancing, he very softly kissed the mark on her lip, waiting until fingernails dug appreciatively into his arms to drift lower. Encouraged, he let his breath warm her skin, rewarded by a tiny sound catching in her throat.

He moved over her again, holding back until at last she opened her eyes. Kissing her just once, he broke away, watching for the tremble in her chin each time his hips pushed into hers. Softly, tenderly, he brushed past her mouth and receded, nibbled its edge and pressed closer to slip his tongue into the loose “o” formed at its center, taking from her lips again and again until her eyes fluttered closed.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere over the Atlantic he was startled by the furtive nudge of a surprisingly sharp elbow. Jerking, he opened his eyes and inhaled, one knee bumping into Elizabeth’s in the next seat. She frowned and sat up straighter, smoothing her skirt.

“Sorry.”

He pretended to yawn and rubbed his eyes, using the excuse to stretch to perform a brief check of the cabin. The man directly behind them was still snoring audibly, mouth sagging open at a less than appealing angle. Glancing up from her magazine, woman across the aisle stubbed out her cigarette, not smiling when their eyes met. Elizabeth didn’t say anything when he turned back, a grunt under her breath hinting at disapproval. Sticking a finger into his collar to loosen his tie, he squinted and leaned past her to look out the small window adjacent to their seats, miles of endless blue ocean stretching to the edge of the horizon.

Face unnaturally still, she swallowed, chin puckering just slightly. Glancing down the aisle to make sure the stewardess was out of earshot, he lowered his voice.

“Is everything okay?”

Closing her eyes, she took a breath.

“Yes, fine.” She said it mechanically and reached over to pull down the shade. Straightening the hem of her sweater, she nodded towards the front of the plane. “They’re about to start serving dinner. I told her you wanted the beef tips.”

“I heard.”

Frowning again, she shot him a look, turning back to the window without saying anything. Philip settled back in his seat and unfolded the newspaper he’d picked up at the airport, pretending to read while quietly returning to the conversation taking place just across the aisle.

The plane filled mostly with men traveling alone, there were perhaps a dozen couples, a few families seated close to the back. Trapped together for the duration of the flight, it was if nothing else a useful study in habit and mannerism, in the way they laughed, talked, and lazily sipped drinks, in what subjects were preferred in favor of others, and in which groupings of words they tended to smear together into sloppy contractions he would never find in the pages of an English language text, all of it crucial in selling the authenticity of a cover not yet tested and nothing they could’ve ever been taught from a book.

The youngest and most attractive of their three stewardesses came down the aisle, smiling brightly as she bent down in front of the man across from him.

“Can I get you anything, sir?”

Lip almost twitching, Philip looked down, the incessant _smiling_ something about which they’d been warned in advance. The occupant of the seat across the aisle was a large man, a stubbly jowl hanging over the top of his collar. He stubbed out his cigarette, eyes making a momentary detour before coming back to her face.

“Scotch on the rocks, sugar.”

The stewardess turned to him, flashing an identical smile. “And you?”

Careful not to look at anything south of her chin, he propped an elbow on the armrest and gave her a slight nod, allowing the corners of his mouth barely to turn up.

“I’ll have the same.”

Her cheeks picked up a hint of color. Resting a hand on the empty seat in front of him, she leaned closer. “So is this your first time flying with us?”

Crinkling his nose a little sheepishly, he shrugged. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yeah.” Smiling, she waved one hand with a nervous laugh, holding his gaze for a few extra seconds before moving to the next row of seats.

Stretching to relieve the crick in his neck, Philip leaned back in the chair.

“She seems to like you.”

Elizabeth flipped the page in her magazine, voice the tiniest bit dry. He glanced over out of the corner of one eye, noting her wedding ring glinting in the light, slim on the narrow length of her finger. Not responding, he absently fiddled with his.

“Lemme guess, you just joined the club?” The man across the aisle winked, pointing at his hand.

“Yes, that’s right.” Taking mental note of _lemme_ , Philip started to extend a hand, quickly retracting it when their drinks came. “Just two weeks ago. Steven Turner. And this is my wife, Lydia.”

He said it a little too quickly, purposefully allowing his fingers to fumble with all the nervousness of a new groom as he reached for Elizabeth’s hand. Chuckling, the man lifted his glass in a toast.

“Mike.” He exhaled and took a sip, shaking his head as he set the scotch down. “Twenty-three years next month. Course, it wasn’t always easy, but that’s life for ya.”

“Wow.” Philip raised his eyebrows, looking over at Elizabeth. “That’s just--”

“It’s sweet.” Lacing their fingers, she rubbed the back of his wrist in a way that might’ve seemed spontaneous if not for the months they’d spent practicing it, the first smile he’d seen since boarding the plane spreading across her lips.

Not particularly sorry to have her so close in spite of the ruse, Philip swallowed and squeezed her thumb, nodding in agreement. “That’s really something.”

Mike took another sip of scotch. “Betcha watch baseball, dontcha, Steve?”

Tempted to see how _betcha_ and _dontcha_ would feel rolling off his tongue, Philip instead flashed a friendly grin and leaned back in the seat, casually dropping the _of_ from his answer just like he had.

“Course.”

“Catch the All-Star game last week?”

Elizabeth closed her eyes after dinner, still as a statue even as he suspected she wasn’t really asleep. Careful not to bump the armrest, he peered discreetly in her direction. Her hands were folded in her lap, pale and deceptively delicate, revealing no sign they were capable of hurling an unsuspecting opponent to the mats for the mistake of underestimating her abilities. Lightly built, she was nonetheless quick.

Suppressing a smile at the memory, he let his eyes travel up to her mouth. Lips thin and finely curved, they were a soft shade of pink that was . . . _distracting_.

Blinking to clear his head, Philip looked away, unable to keep from picturing her mouth under his, those same fingers cool and light in tracing his cheek. Swallowing, he settled back in the seat, her hand, not for the first time leaving his face, sliding over a long line of buttons and the bump of his belt to lave attention over something else.

_They were supposed to be married now._

Shifting uncomfortably, he tugged at the leg of his pants. The topic hadn’t yet been broached outside of a dictating of orders in Zhukov’s office, children included in a list of mission objectives to be achieved within the first two years. Nothing required of either of them beyond a nod of assent, the conversation was of no particular usefulness in gauging her readiness or potential interest in joining him in bed.

_It had been . . . awhile._

They’d spent countless hours alone together in training, none of it free, his occasional suggestions they stop by the commissary for a beer after finishing for the day met with a neat decline and the insistence she had studying to do. Uncertain around one another, their interactions were still marked with the same awkwardness in place from the first day they’d met, conversations revolving around message transmissions, dead drops and the fabricated histories of Philip and Elizabeth Jennings, _never_ extending even an inch past the specified parameters of any given training assignment.

He glanced over when her arm brushed his. Quickly pulling back, she looked away, frowning a little.

“It’s shorter than before.”

He shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “At least he got it even on the sides.”

Staring at him silently, Elizabeth offered nothing in response. She sat up a little straighter when the pilot came over the intercom to announce their descent into Toronto, a sudden thinning in the set of her mouth underlining the danger they might not get through Customs on falsified passports. Waiting until she met his eyes, he gave her a quick nod. Hesitating only briefly, she took a breath and returned it, a final confirmation exchanged between partners as the plane began its descent.

They found a suitable motel just after night fell in Ontario. Unlocking the door, Philip wedged it open awkwardly with one elbow. Elizabeth followed him into the room, hanging back by the door while he searched for the light switch. The bed was covered in a faded blue flowered comforter, a television set standing on the dresser across from it. Setting down the suitcases, he flipped it on, unable to help marveling at the image of a newscaster reading a weather report from behind a heavy wooden desk.

“It really works.” He flashed her a quick grin, the expression fading when she frowned and nervously crossed her arms.

Turning back, he snapped the set off. Elizabeth looked down, still not answering. He cleared his throat, trying again.

“Are you hungry? There was that restaurant a little ways up the--”

She shook her head, fingers tapping nervously at her bottom lip. Staring at her for a moment, he wandered to the back of the room and opened the door across from the clothes rack.

_They even had their own bathroom._

“Least we made it through Customs okay. That was perfect, what you said.” Turning on the bathroom light, Philip took a look around and loosened his tie. “Do you care which side of the bed--?”

“No.”

Something in her voice made him look up. She was still hanging back close to the door, fishing for something in her purse. Studying her face, he started to speak, but stopped himself, the set of her jaw and faint glassiness in her eyes dissuading the idea. Dropping his tie on the dresser, he stuck the room key in his pocket.

“I’m gonna go hunt for a paper. Make sure we’re caught up with the news.” He kept his voice soft. “You need anything?”

Still not looking at him, Elizabeth shook her head.

Needing to kill time, he wandered the motel grounds, taking a moment to examine the Coca-Cola machine outside the front office. The highway leading back into town was fairly quiet, cars passing by every minute or so. Hands in his pockets, he ambled over to the road, studying the line of large, glowing signs flickering in the distance.

The shower was running when he returned, Elizabeth’s things neatly situated by the far side of the bed. He hung his coat on the rack and pulled out his shirttail, sinking onto the bed to remove his shoes. Stifling a yawn, he reached over to switch on the television and stretched out on top of the bedspread. The mattress nearly as comfortable as the one at the hotel in Frankfurt, it was easily an improvement over his bunk back at the Academy.

The water cut off. Only half listening to the news program, he settled back against the pillows. It was ten minutes before the door to the bathroom opened. Hair wet and sticking to her cheeks, Elizabeth emerged. Not meeting his eyes, she sat on the far edge of the bed, one hand carefully securing the neck of her robe. Watching her silently for a moment, he rose from the bed and switched off the television, going to dig the recently issued Dopp kit out of his suitcase.

It was the best shower of his life. The water pressure strong enough to dig like tiny needles into his neck, the stiffness from the plane was quickly eased under plentiful heat. Wiping his face, he shut off the water and pulled back the curtain, reaching for one of the fat, fluffy towels.

The lights were off in the bedroom, only his lamp left switched on. Elizabeth had the covers pulled all the way to her neck, her thin frame balanced barely an inch from the edge of the mattress. Staring at her back for a few seconds, he shook his head and went to put his things away. Careful to leave her enough room, he eased the covers back just enough to climb into bed and reached over to switch off the lamp.

 

* * *

 

In a world filled with people he’d never had to work to understand, she was the greatest enigma he’d ever known.

With the others there was never any question. They moaned like cows. Tried to yank his hair. Begged him to fuck them harder in simpering tones, voices ringing with a falsity so transparent he was no longer the only one putting on an act. As in everything, Elizabeth held herself tightly in control. They didn’t talk, hands pushing and pulling in silence, motions growing rough and sloppy, heartbeats slowly increasing until they thundered with an intensity neither could mask. It was in her breathing that he measured her response, arousal gauged by failed attempts to check it as she neared the edge, in the sight of her head falling back to the pillow when she couldn’t hold it in any longer, in breathless pants hot against his mouth.

Hips locked in a steady, grinding rhythm, he stared down at her, knowing she was close by the tiny gasps she couldn’t still, by the muffled grunts in the back of her throat, a futile effort to keep from making a sound broken in a single rushed exhalation that only spurred him on. Mouth straying no more than an inch from hers, he shifted the angle of their hips, gradually applying more pressure.

Elizabeth opened her eyes when their noses brushed, holding his gaze for only seconds before letting them flutter closed. Her face was drawn, the vein in her forehead a tensed ridge rising under flushed skin. Breathing ragged as hers, he sealed his mouth over the open circle of her lips for the half-second he could forego the oxygen, needing to be linked with her in every way.

Breaking away, she gritted her teeth, thighs shaking violently on either side of his hips. Fingernails dug into his arms, her hair a tangled mess strewn over the pillow. He bent to kiss her chin, to taste her skin salty and cool with perspiration, the feverish slap of meeting flesh the only sound in the room. Gasping, she gripped his shoulders, pushed against them, face contracting as she arched her back.

_“Philip.”_

It was soft as a breath. Shuddering, he lowered his mouth to her throat, the small, trivial whisper of his name crumbling something lodged deep in his chest. Neck tensed under the silent worship of his lips and tongue, she squirmed beneath him, the burn that tore through his hips when she seized him hard nearly making his eyes roll back.

Unable to do anything but thrust and breathe, he let it wash over him. Her lips trembled where they found his throat, the hand that guided his mouth back to hers shaking. It was a clumsy, messy kiss, tongues meeting and then missing, control slipping away in the final seconds before he was overcome. Grunting, he gripped the pillow and buried his face in her neck, for one blissful, perfect moment allowing himself to think of nothing but sensation, of being squeezed tight and warm as fingernails dug into his back, slowly drowning in a sea of tingling and heat.

Spent once it passed, he let his head droop, not particularly inclined to pull away. Her pulse was light and fast under his cheek, breath tickling past his ear in soft pants. Leaving a final kiss at her throat, he collapsed onto the pillows. She followed, pressing her cheek to his chest once he lifted an arm.

For a moment, neither moved. Staring up at the ceiling, he trailed fingers through her hair, never having felt quite so good. A hint of champagne lingered on her breath, the sensation of her skin soft and warm against his one he had no intention of quickly surrendering. Lifting her chin to glance up at him, the movement sent the scent of shampoo wafting against his cheek, hair tickling his shoulder when she settled back down. He hid a smile, reaching up to touch it again.

“Thank you.”

She exhaled softly, almost a laugh. Circling fingers through the hair on his chest, she smiled against his skin.

“For what?”

Her voice lighter than he’d ever heard it, it was unguarded as he’d once imagined in their earliest days. Relaxed to the point of drowsiness, he toyed with her hair, enjoying the feeling of it tumbling between his fingers.

“For making us take the afternoon off.”

Pushing up on one elbow, Elizabeth climbed on top of him. She narrowed her eyes, voice regaining some semblance of normalcy.

“That’s what you wanna thank me for?”

Her hair fell in a long curtain next to her cheek, swaying lightly over the bed. Smiling, he smoothed it back.

“Mm-hmm.”

She giggled, eyes crinkling beautifully at the corners. He drew a hand through her hair, spreading it out over her back. Expression softening, she stared down at him, moving ever so slowly closer to take his bottom lip in both of hers.

It was different than before, unhurried, for the first time, an exploration. He kissed her softly, studying her face once she pulled away. Having kept herself from him for the longest time, it was a distance carefully cultivated, years of secrecy not easily bridged, the one truth shining dark and genuine in her eyes after everything else fell away that she _wanted_ to be found, had reached across the chasm between them to seek his hand.

Settling back under his arm, Elizabeth curled closer, cool toes finding a warm spot to hide under his leg. He chuckled, turning to press a kiss to her forehead.

“No socks?” Murmuring it, he inhaled the scent of her hair. “Don’t _tell_ me your feet are finally the right temperature."

She smiled against his shoulder, running her fingers over his chest.

“No.”

Both of them laughing softly, he pressed his cheek to her forehead. One knee was draped over his, her bare belly warm and tender against his side. Nuzzling closer, he closed his eyes.

“Do you ever miss it?”

She whispered it against his neck, arm arching lazily across him as if she wanted every possible inch of them touching.

He reached up to stroke her hair. “What?”

“Home.”

Taking a moment, he traced fingers along her arm, circling lightly at the point of her elbow.

“Sometimes. Little things.”

She nodded, hair tickling the edge of his nose. He kissed her again, gently combing it back. Fingers curling in front of her mouth, she nodded.

“My mother for my birthday used to make a little soufflé cake.” Pausing, she smiled, voice softening to a forbidden whisper. “ _Ptichye moloko._ Just a small one in a bowl because the ingredients were hard to find. We would sit at the table together after dinner and share it.”

He craned his neck to better see her, watching the lines of her mouth as she talked.

“She would . . . tell me she was full, that I should take more than half,” smile growing, Elizabeth touched her chin a little guiltily, “because she knew I wanted it.”

“Did you let her?” Fingers still trailing through her hair, he kissed the bridge of her nose.

_“No,”_ Elizabeth laughed in a whisper, a hint of sadness tugging at the corner of her mouth. “She . . . told me, near the end before I left, that the year I turned seven, I gave her this,” she gestured with one hand, “ _look_ no seven-year-old should’ve possessed. She said she could see from that moment forth there was no convincing me of anything else. That I only wanted to hear the truth.”

Philip slid a hand up to take hers, toying with her fingers. Elizabeth shook her head.

“It’s been so long, but sometimes when I look at Paige, I can still see her so clearly.” Pausing, her voice softened. “She favors her.”

“Really?”

Thoughtful, Elizabeth nodded.

“She has her chin, the same nose.” She poked him, allowing a quiet laugh. “But your ears.”

He grunted. “Not really a gift on a girl.”

She smiled. They lay in silence for a moment.

Kissing her again, he brushed her hair back. “She’s always reminded me more of you.”

“You think so?” Asked with no small measure of doubt, there was something in the question that was the tiniest bit wistful.

“Mm-hmm.” Lacing their fingers, he kissed the back of her hand. “Whenever I’d take her to the park when she was little, she’d grab my hand, pull me over to the slide and give very clear instructions on where to stand and how I was _not_ to drop her.”

“And that was like me?” Giggling, she ran her fingers over his chest, asking it in a whisper.

He smiled, stroking her hair. “It was uncanny the way she’d narrow her eyes. And then she’d march over to the ladder. Fearless.”

Elizabeth shook her head, remembering. “She always wanted me to take her on the swings.”

Philip nodded, playing with her hair. “Yeah, I remember. She said I wouldn’t push as high as you would.”

“No,” she agreed, voice quiet. “But you were the one she trusted would catch her.”

Her expression softened, eyes growing darker, more serious. Pushing up on one elbow, she moved back over him. He rose off the pillow to meet her, their mouths fusing in a kiss that was slow, almost lazy. Hands sliding to her waist, he caressed the smooth skin above her navel before moving higher.

She broke away, staring down into his eyes while he mapped the curve of her hips and felt the weight of her cupped softly in his hands, freely looking over her, the lights on, nothing in the way.

He touched her cheek, staring into her eyes for a long moment before drawing her down to him. Mouths meeting, she tipped her head to one side, giving him full access. He pulled her onto him, one hand tangling in her hair, the other tracing fingers slowly up and down the length of her spine until she broke away and exhaled against his chin, legs once again beginning to shake. Meeting her eyes, he pushed her hair back and kissed her again, arms locking tight around her as they fell back onto the bed.

 

* * *

 

For the first night in a strange bed, it was a better sleep than he might’ve predicted. A shift in the mattress nudged him towards wakefulness, the pillow under his ear soft enough to counter there was little to be gained from moving. The covers tugged beneath his arm, a cool draft sneaking into the gap between his shirt and pants. The bed moved, the door to the bathroom closing a moment later. Stretching, he flopped over and scratched his balls, drifting back off.

The next time he woke, Elizabeth was moving quietly around the room. Yawning, he rubbed his face and blinked, noting she was already dressed. Back to him, she picked up her brush.

“Morning.” He yawned again, propping himself on one elbow. “Did you sleep okay?”

She finished putting her hair up without turning in his direction. “I’m going to have a look around. Assess things.” Lifting her earrings from the dresser, she leaned closer to the mirror to put them on. “We should have breakfast soon.”

He flopped back on the pillows, wishing he had a couple of aspirin. “Sure.”

She grabbed her sweater off the back of the chair. Watching her slide her arms into it, he turned away before she could notice him staring.

“The room key?” Her tone was calm, businesslike.

“Coat pocket.”

The door shut a moment later. Philip rubbed his forehead and pushed back the covers, going to pee. Fifteen minutes later he locked the door to the room and wandered over to the diner across the road.

Elizabeth was seated at a table by the window, facing the motel. She met his eyes from across the restaurant, something he couldn’t quite read passing across her face before she turned to study the menu.

“Hi, honey.” He bent to kiss her cheek, rubbing her arm for good measure. Unbuttoning his coat, he slid into the booth across from her and picked up the second menu. “So what looks good?”

She smiled at the waitress walking by, waiting until she was gone to lower her voice. “I walked around, checked things out. The bus stops right down the road every thirty minutes. We can take it into town, find someplace to rent a car.”

“You’re off to an early start.” Yawning, he flipped over the menu.

_Eggs, bacon and coffee._

“It’s nine-thirty.” She shot him a look, having clearly not missed his note of sarcasm. “We weren’t sent here to sleep all day.”

Shaking his head, he set the menu aside and leaned across the table. “No, but we _are_ supposed to be on our honeymoon. The manager’s expecting us to spend a _little_ more time than usual in the room, if you catch my drift. You might not want to draw so much attention.”

She stared back at him, jaw tightening a barely perceptible amount.

He paid for the remark the rest of the way through breakfast. All attempts to smooth it over met with icy silence and an emotionless shrug, by the time the check came he had little doubt she wanted to leap across the table and smash a piece of toast in his face. Reaching for his wallet, he exhaled.

“I’m sorry.”

Making him wait a full minute, Elizabeth finally nodded.

He downed the rest of his coffee and raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t we head into town and map things out? We can go back tonight and drop the message we made it through okay, wait for instructions and our passports.”

“Yeah.” Tone returning to normal, she reached for her purse. “I need to get something from the room and then we can go.”

“Sure.”

He buttoned his jacket and started to rise, understanding only after a frown was cast in his direction that he wasn’t invited. Flashing her the half-smile of apology that was quickly becoming second nature, he shook his head and sat back down.

“Sorry.”

It was a long morning. Managing by mid-afternoon to secure local maps and a rental car, they worked out escape routes and emergency meeting locations before driving to the west side of town to scout the pre-determined signal site. A little curious to try out the radio, he didn’t bother suggesting they switch it on, guessing from the flat set of her mouth it would only provoke more conflict.

“There.” Elizabeth inclined her chin towards the approaching intersection. “That’s it. The bench across from the fountain.”

“Yeah, I see it.” Turning the corner to come around for a second pass, he made a face. “Not the best choice of spot. It’s far enough from the street, but right out in the open. Lots of people walking by.”

“We should just do it now.”

Frowning, he glanced her way. “Like this? It’s too risky. Why not come back tonight, wait until there are fewer--”

“Because we’re already a week overdue.” Tone carefully neutral, there was nonetheless something in it that suggested she considered the delay entirely his fault. She pulled out her purse, finding a slip of paper and the dark brown sheath carefully concealed in the lining of her pocketbook. “I’ll go by myself.”

Philip pulled up to the curb and put the Mercury in park. Scribbling a set of digits, Elizabeth folded the paper and stuffed it into the envelope.

“It’s pretty crowded.” Checking the rearview mirror, he took a breath. “You don’t think we’d get in and out faster together?”

Hesitating momentarily, she set her jaw, slid the message into her pocket and pushed open the door. They wandered down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, pretending to glance carelessly into shop windows as they passed. Elizabeth took his hand once they reached the small square by the fountain, tugging him towards the bench. Squinting in the sun, he tucked an arm across the back of the seat.

“Woman, your left. Twenty feet.”

Smiling as if he’d said something adoring, she slipped the message from her pocket. He moved closer, softly nuzzling her ear.

“She’s moving away.” Whispering it, he checked again. “Okay, your side is clear.”

Elizabeth feigned a laugh and glanced over his shoulder, scooting over as if to get closer to him while stealthily sticking the envelope to the underside of the bench. Her ponytail brushed his arm. Momentarily distracted by the soft, flowery smell of her hair, he blinked and forced his gaze away from her chin.

They kept up the ruse for a full minute. Peering behind him one last time, Elizabeth straightened and met his eyes. He casually rose, lacing their fingers. Dropping hands once they got to the car, they took a quick, final survey of the street, confirming they weren’t being followed.

Elizabeth leaned back in the seat. “We can start checking for the signal tomorrow, wait for them to set up a meeting.”

“Yeah.” He pulled away from the curb. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes. A little.” Frowning, she scanned the road behind them. “I want to drive by one more time after dinner and see how crowded it is later in the day.”

“Sure.” Slowing at the light, Philip studied the signs hanging over a row of businesses on the adjacent street. “There was a pizza place we passed on the way here.” He flashed a quick grin. “You ever try it before?”

Looking over when an unnatural span of seconds passed without a response, he discovered she’d turned to stare out the window, fingers rubbing edgily at her bottom lip. Finally she took a breath.

“Of course. In Chicago.”

Shaking his head, he immediately frowned. “No, I mean--”

“We’re not supposed to talk about it.” Her voice was stiff, a warning.

Exhaling, he started the car forward after the light changed. “It’s a state secret what sort of food you like?”

She ignored him. The silence stretched out as he drove back towards the center of town. Slowing when traffic picked up, he glanced her way. Not turning, she swallowed, the bottom of her cheek flinching.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, a never-ending line of signs in English that advertised everything from souvenirs to golfing supplies doing little to dissuade a growing feeling of isolation. Pulling into the motel, he shut off the engine, neither of them moving. Finally he lowered his head.

“I’m just . . . trying to make things a little easier. This is strange for me too.”

She turned her head towards the window and twisted her mouth to one side. “This is for our cover. Nothing more.” Clearing her throat, she shook her head. “It’s not real. And we have to remember that.”

He took a breath. “Yeah, it’s for our cover. But we’re still going to be working together. And _living_ together. We’re gonna have to talk about things.”

Elizabeth stared straight ahead.

“It’s _not real_ ,” she repeated, voice harder. “ _Nothing_ about you or me is real. What we like and don’t like, where we came from, how Philip and Elizabeth Jennings met . . . it’s a story made up so that we can do our jobs.” She nodded, turning to face him. “And we can’t let ourselves get confused about that.”

The accusation once again less than subtle, he blew out his breath. “I’m not _confused_. There’s just no reason to make this harder than it has to be.”

Not meeting his eyes, she shook her head, the gesture as dismissive as any words could’ve been. Getting out without bothering to answer, she shut the door and left him alone in the car.

 

* * *

 

“We should probably get up.”

The room so still he could’ve counted her breaths, the whisper reached somewhere just below his chin, neither of them making any particular effort to move. Eyes closed and cheek pillowed against her forehead, Philip let the arm around her tighten just enough to indicate an answer. Laughing softly, Elizabeth traced tiny circles over his chest, after a moment disentangling their legs.

He grumbled in protest, making a face when she rose on one elbow over him. Smiling, she leaned down for a kiss, pausing for a few seconds on top of him before sliding from beneath the covers.

Letting out a long breath, he stared at the ceiling one she disappeared into the bathroom, finally reaching up to rub his face. They traded places after the toilet flushed, Elizabeth half-dressed by the time he emerged.

“Did you finish booking the Peterman flights?”

Grabbing his pants off the floor, Philip glanced up at her. “Barb took care of it.”

“Hmm.” She nodded, turning to button her blouse.

They dressed in silence. Finding her socks in the messy pile of clothes strewn over the floor, Elizabeth sat down to put them on, playfully tossing him his when he sank onto the bed beside her. He winked, catching them in the air.

“Thanks.”

Mouth immediately curling into a smile, she covered it with one hand. He propped an arm behind her and leaned in for a kiss. Clearing her throat after they parted, Elizabeth straightened and finished with her socks, something in her face softer, relaxed. She tugged him to his feet, flashing a brief smile before starting on his buttons.

Hands running over her shoulders while she dressed him, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, a soft ghost of breath tickling his chest when her fingers paused at his shirt. Eyes growing heavy, she lifted her chin.

The kiss that followed came easily, mouths joining without hesitation or resistance. Philip squeezed her arms, looking down while she finished buttoning him up. Kissing his throat, she smoothed his shirt and went to get her boots.

Staring after her for a moment, he exhaled.

_Everything had changed._

He shrugged into his coat, glancing over at her. “You wanna stop for ice cream on the way back?”

Back to him, she turned over one shoulder, nose wrinkling.

“ _Ice_ cream?” Clearly wary of a joke, she smiled and tugged on her second boot. “Right _now_?”

Something in the way she said the last part suggesting less than total disapproval, he smiled and came around the bed. Sliding next to her, he pushed her hair back to nibble at the soft curve of her neck and shoulder. She giggled and touched her chin. Letting his fingers tickle over her skin, he waited until she took a breath to whisper,

“Mm-hmm.”

Her fingers trembled as she tried to zip her boots, a smile forming when he reached over to help. She met his eyes, letting her fingers trail across his cheek before kissing him one final time.

Rising, she went to the divan to retrieve her coat, draping it over one arm and reaching for his hand. He squeezed her fingers, tugging her closer.

“You wanna sweep the room for fingerprints?”

Giving him a look, she shook her head, trailing a step behind.

_“No.”_

“You sure? Cause--”

Lacing their fingers more snugly, she narrowed her eyes and pulled him towards the door.

“Let’s go.”

 

 

 


	5. COMINT

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Frowning at the TV set, Philip made a face and reached for his beer. “How do you _miss_ that?”

He took a swallow, glancing over when feet shifted in his lap. Stretched out across the length of the couch, Elizabeth set her wineglass on the table and flipped a page in her book.

“You’re going to wake Henry.”

Grunting, he dug into the jumbo bag of pretzels. “Yeah, well _he_ coulda made that shot. And he’s gonna sulk all the way to school when he finds out the Caps got scored on twice after we made him go to bed. I can’t _believe_ they didn’t block that pass.”

She shot him a look. “The last time _you_ let him stay up, _I_ was the one who got the call from Mrs. Kosta.”

Still crunching on pretzels, Philip nodded.

“Yeah, I remember. And then she somehow roped you into sending cupcakes for the class party.” He downed the rest of his beer, raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “For an old lady, she’s pretty good. Might wanna think about recruiting her.”

“I _volunteered_.” Eyes narrowing just a little, she poked a toe towards his stomach. “And then I had to make an extra dozen because you and Henry kept sneaking them out of the kitchen.”

Grinning, he captured her foot, letting his fingers brush lightly along its sole.

“Mm-hmm.”

She ducked her head when he winked, pushing her hair behind one ear. “ _Stop_ it.”

“Stop what?”

Eyes back on the game, he resumed lazily kneading the arch of her foot. Elizabeth took another sip of wine and settled into the pillows, legs still draped across his lap. Working his way higher, he located the soft hollow tucked at the base of her ankle, gently kneading until she swallowed and made a faint sound under her breath. He glanced over, a smile forming upon noting the tension had drained from her face, the book in her hands momentarily drooping.

Scooting her trouser leg up a few inches, he stroked fingers along the underside of her calf, lightly at first, the touch gradually increasing in pressure. She let the book fall closed, the toes of her free foot starting to squirm against his leg, curling and then giving a slow flex as his hands moved steadily back and forth. Suppressing a smile, he stealthily eased a finger under the top edge of her sock.

“Don’t you _dare_.”

Yanking her foot from his lap, Elizabeth shifted to her hands and knees, crawling towards him on all fours like a cat getting ready to pounce. Unable to keep from grinning, Philip lifted both hands as if to fend off an attack, not trying particularly hard to block her.

“I don’t know what you’re ta--”

Her mouth closed over his, fingers digging under his sweater in search of a ticklish spot near his ribs. Growling quietly, he captured her hands, a brief standoff concluded when she lifted a knee across his lap. He grasped her hips, helping her to balance on top of him. Kissing him long enough to let him know who was in control, Elizabeth lifted her chin an inch from his, eyes narrowed.

“Leave my socks alone.”

Raising a hand to smooth back her hair, he tucked the dark, swaying curtain behind one ear, voice deadly serious.

“My finger slipped.”

She made a face and pushed off of him, cheek twitching. “ _Sure_ it did.” Leaning over to collect her wine glass, she took his beer bottle and gestured towards the half-empty pretzel bag on the table. “You finished with those?”

“Thanks.”

He turned back to the TV. The lid of the trash can popped opened, a muffled thump following when the bottle dropped. He didn’t so much as blink while she rinsed her glass and toweled it dry, waiting for the plastic rustle of the pretzel bag to steal a covert look in her direction. Pausing with the cabinet open, Elizabeth set the pretzels back on the counter and reached up to take a small black box off the shelf.

“What’s _this_?”

There was a slight rise in her voice, the way she ducked her head so he wouldn’t see her smile, adorable. Pushing off the couch, he came up behind her, smoothed her hair to one side and bent to kiss the nape of her neck. Skin warm, the subtle change in her breathing the moment his lips touched was quiet, intimate.

She swallowed and rested a hand on the counter, balance not particularly steady. Curling both arms around her middle, he tucked his head at her shoulder and nodded towards the box, waiting for her to open it.

“It’s . . . beautiful.” Touching her bottom lip, she stared at the necklace, a few seconds passing before she pushed her hair behind one ear.

His lips settled once more at the edge of her hairline. Head dipping forward a little more, she twisted her hair up into a knot and lifted it off her neck, passing him the box. He disentangled the chain from its holder, delicately straightening the heart pendant before reaching around her. Fingering it briefly, Elizabeth let her hair down and turned to face him.

It was the moment he waited for, every time, the softness in her expression bringing a rush of satisfaction so private he didn’t dare share it, the clarity in her eyes just before she closed them in anticipation something of a drug. She touched his cheek, lips parting as she stood on her toes and leaned up to seek his mouth.

After two weeks, there was no longer urgency, his hands settling at her waist absent the worry they’d be pushed away, her arms curling at his neck, luxurious and slow, body molding to his as he leaned against the counter. Mouths linked, she moved with him, nudging lifts of her chin and the quiet meeting of tongues reaffirming a fledgling, newfound intimacy. Stepping back, Elizabeth ran fingers down his chest, letting him see her eyes darken with a different kind of want.

He took her free hand. Curling fingers into his, she trailed after him into the living room, the corner of her mouth quirking when he leaned over to dig the remote from the couch cushions. He snapped off the TV and gave her hand a tug, watching her mouth slowly curve into a smile. Tucking back her hair, she looked down, hooking a thumb in her front pocket as she followed him towards the stairs.

 

* * *

 

“Are you almost finished with those invoices?”

Rising from her chair, Elizabeth took a quick sip of coffee and hurried out into the main office to tear off a printout. Philip swallowed, still staring at the computer screen, the light wave of perfume drifting towards him when she passed by doing little to ease the knot pulling steadily tighter in his gut. He took a breath, the answer monotone.

“Yeah.” Tapping a pen against the desk, he lowered his voice. “What time are you meeting him?”

“Six-thirty.” She didn’t look up, forehead growing increasingly lined as she read over the printout. Shaking her head, she let out an annoyed sigh and stalked back through the doorway. _“Stavos.”_

He looked down once she was gone, gripping the pen with enough force to turn his knuckles white. Letting his shoulders slump a fraction of an inch, he squinted his eyes shut, quickly straightening when Elizabeth breezed back into the room.

“You should take a couple Tylenol.”

“What?” Frowning, he turned from the computer, instantly cautious at the sympathetic tilt to her mouth.

She grabbed her coat off the hook on the door and slid into it, knotting the belt. “For your head.”

Leaning back in the chair, he ran a hand over his face.

“Yeah.”

“I put a casserole together last night. Heat the oven to three-fifty and stick it in for an hour. Take off the foil and another fifteen minutes to get it to brown. Paige knows what to do if it’s not looking right.”

Resisting the urge to remind her, not for the first time in fifteen years, that he knew how to operate an oven, he instead nodded and flipped the pen onto the desk. “We’ll be fine.”

Elizabeth shook her hair out. “And you won’t forget to check her French homework? She has a quiz tomorrow.”

Taking a breath, he flashed her a quick smile. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

A moment passed, the two of them staring back at one another in silence. Giving him a quick nod, she picked up her purse and turned for the door. Philip looked down, something unexpectedly ugly gnawing its way through his chest.

“Wait.”

Glancing out into the main office, he stood and motioned her away from the window, pulling her into a brief hug. There was a second of hesitation before her arms curled around his neck, the knot in his stomach temporarily loosening when he felt fingers stroke lightly through his hair. Releasing her after only a few seconds, he cleared his throat.

“Good luck.”

She gave him a mildly quizzical smile and reached up to touch his chest. “I’ll see you later.”

Watching her go, he nodded, waiting until she was gone to clench one hand into a fist. Dinner came and went with little fanfare, marked with Paige’s usual opinionated commentary on the evening news and the quiet relocation of Henry’s vegetables to various other areas of his plate in the hopes it would go unnoticed they weren’t actually being eaten. Homework done, he finally gave up hinting around the idea of staying up to watch TV even though it was a school night and shuffled upstairs for his bath. Frowning at the cheese-encrusted casserole dish, Philip started the water running, glancing over when Paige appeared at his elbow with a stack of plates.

“Thanks, honey.” He squirted in some soap and set the dish aside to soak. “The salad you made was good.”

“Thanks.” Hesitating, she watched him scrape their plates over the disposal, fingers twisting nervously. “Dad, can I use the phone? I know it’s almost eight, but I need to talk to Jennifer about something. There’s this boy at school she likes and today he asked someone else to go out.” Wrinkling her nose, she looked down. “She just really needs a friend to talk to right now.”

He rinsed the first plate. “You finished your homework?”

“Mm-hmm,” she squirmed a little when he glanced over, the smile that accompanied the answer brighter than required, “just about.”

Raising an eyebrow, he waited. Paige stared back at him, showing no sign of budging.

“What about that quiz in French?”

Sighing heavily, she leaned against the counter and fussed with the edge of the dishtowel, lip beginning to protrude. “I already studied for it.”

“Well, look over your notes again.” He nodded towards the stairs. “I’ll be up in a little bit and we can go over it together.”

Giving a huffy sigh, she pushed away from the counter and trudged from the room. Philip shook his head, shut off the water and glanced at his watch.

_Almost eight._

Exhaling, he leaned against the counter, trying not to think of what was almost certainly going on by then. Elizabeth’s face stared back frozen in the recesses of his mind, eyes heavy with all the markers of lust, the worn, comfortable blue sweater she’d put on that morning exchanged for something provocative enough to seamlessly shift a simple business meeting into something far more risqué, a blouse thin enough to see through and a skirt that showed off the shape of her legs, the perfect bait to lure a man who wasn’t him into her bed.

_It was what they were trained for._

Swallowing, he lowered his head. At nineteen, the idea of sleeping around to gain access to intelligence hadn’t sounded particularly bad. Presented as an unspoken perk of the assignment by their superiors, there had been enough talk circulating the men’s barracks to know what the upcoming training would entail.

Their instruction was thorough, ample direction provided both on method and technique. Slides detailed the areas fingers and tongue would need to find in the dark. Positions their marks would find most pleasurable. Areas of greatest sensitivity for stimulation. For the inexperienced they brought in whores, an option many of those not lacking for practice availed themselves of as well, and one in which he found little particular appeal. Managing not to react during the lectures, it was the idea of trying out what they were learning between the long, slender legs of his newly assigned partner that proved most distracting, circumstances instead forcing him to settle for his own hand moving discreetly after hours in his bunk, a fast, furtive act made all the more uncomfortable by the shift of mattress springs and the sound of grunts, farts and snoring coming from all across the barracks, an option still preferable over relieving himself in one of the toilet stalls.

In actual practice, what they did was far from what was initially described. Targets carefully selected for their vulnerabilities, the exchange of sex for information was most effective on those incapable of attracting a partner through traditional means. Personalities typically as unappealing as looks, they were nonetheless tasked with finding a way to finish, ignoring awkwardness and unsuspecting overtures thick with quiet desperation and pretending for a few hours to feel something they did not, using the asset’s naiveté to gain trust and with it, access to information.

They were trained in the tactical necessity of such measures behind enemy lines, the act of gathering intelligence through sex no more subject to question than any other order they carried out on behalf of the Centre. Refusing to dwell on it, he suppressed all personal feeling and allowed himself to inhabit a separate corner of his mind for the duration when _Scott_ came to the door, or _Clark_ or _Rich_. It was less complicated that way, to step aside and let one of them go through with the act, for _Dave_ to become aroused even when he felt nothing, for _Carlos_ to whisper his desires in the ear of the man or woman he was trying to take to bed, someone else fucking them senseless while he waited silently in the background for it to be done. They existed in the same space only long enough for a brief exchange of information, fading away until called back into service, the act of stepping from their skin smooth and painless as removing a wig or discarding a pair of used contact lenses.

Rubbing his face, Philip pushed away from the counter and headed upstairs. Henry was stretched out on his bed, engrossed in coloring a picture. Rapping once, he poked his head in the door.

“Fifteen more minutes, then teeth and lights out.” He stooped to pick up his fallen hockey stick, propped it in the corner and leaned over to see what he was drawing. “That the new space shuttle?”

“Mm-hmm.” Too distracted to look up, Henry reached for a different marker, hair falling in his eyes. Smiling, Philip mussed it.

“Fifteen minutes.”

Paige turned in her chair when he knocked. She tapped her pen unenthusiastically against the desk, the set of her mouth bearing a familiar stubbornness. Plopping on her bed, he put a hand out for her textbook.

“Okay, you know the drill. What chapter are we on?”

She sighed in an exaggerated fashion, but handed it over, tapping the bookmark sticking out at the top. Folding her arms, she slumped in the chair.

“Dad, I _hate_ French.”

“It’s important to learn.” Flipping to the right page, he raised an eyebrow. “You might wanna become a travel agent one day.”

Paige made a face. “You and mom didn’t have to learn it.”

Ignoring her tone, he looked over the list of vocabulary.

“No . . . but sometimes I kinda wish one of us had. Would make it easier when we need to set up travel arrangements overseas.” He raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Could’ve avoided accidentally eating _escargot_ at that one conference in Paris if I’d known what they were . . .”

Turning to the next page, he glanced up long enough to see her cheek twitch.

By nine-thirty, she was in her pajamas working on a crossword puzzle, the house growing quiet not long after. Kicking off his shoes, he stretched out on the bed with a book, fighting the urge to check his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time in half an hour.

They’d started working sources within a month of arrival. For him, it was a slow process, each target requiring a period of intense study. He watched for patterns to exploit, learned their preferences and habits, carefully waiting for a place to slip in unnoticed, a month of lonely nights with no company but take-out cartons or a husband who spent all his time at the office exposing angles to work. While Elizabeth indulged one-night fantasies in platinum blonde wigs and short skirts, he eased his way into crevices, becoming the sand that seeped in to fill what their lives lacked. For some it was romance, the wish to be surprised by bracelets or bottles of perfume in pretty, wrapped boxes, for others the ache for companionship. Taking them to bed came with surprising ease, what he initially lacked in breadth of sexual experience masked with a few carefully chosen words, the act far too quickly becoming routine.

It was what they were trained for, nothing more, the heartfelt promises he murmured evaporating as untraceably as the men of their fantasies once their usefulness was exhausted. Each kept well-apprised of what the other was doing, Elizabeth seemed unaffected by the nights he came home late, voice never changing when she asked how it went, knowing he’d spent the evening between another woman’s legs. He showered before climbing under the covers beside her, bothered by the idea of anyone else’s perfume in the bed they shared even as he quietly suspected it was more troubling to him than her.

But as months turned to years, the inherent emptiness of it grew harder to ignore. He performed his duties, gave them orgasms and whispered what they wanted to hear, _Clark_ , _Scott,_ and _Rich_ pretending to return the adoration in their eyes. It was as he left them behind, stuck a key in the ignition and drove home in the quiet hours of the morning that a dull hollowness spread through his chest, shaky declarations of love professed to a dozen men who weren’t _him_ needling a tender wound, a poor substitute for the one it had taken years to admit some part of him silently longed to hear.

Closing his eyes, Philip let his head thump against the wall. There had been no need for discussion, it going unsaid that certain parts of their job would continue regardless of whatever else was happening between them. That he would don Clark’s somewhat constipated smile and sit through dull evenings on the couch at Martha’s. That she would slip into tight leather dresses she never wore around him and twirl straws through fruity drinks in smoky bars, giggling in a silly, empty way that couldn’t have sounded less like _her_ before leading horny men back to some rented room so they could use her until their legs gave out.

_You mean to tell me a girl never put her finger up your ass before?_

Philip rubbed his forehead and set the book aside. They never spoke of specifics, what she did with them, how either of them found ways to get through it, whether she took refuge in a separate corner of her mind or simply cloaked her contempt in a false smile, allowing the cool burn of anger to wash away any inkling of guilt that might later follow. Understanding perhaps for the first time the degree to which it disgusted her to go through with it, he could only imagine the sense of violation she relived every time orders came in for her to get on her knees and service whatever hapless bureaucrat had access to the intelligence they needed. No choice. No possibility of deciding, just once, that she didn’t want to. Wishing he could say it felt no more personal now, it was impossible to deny that it did.

A door shut quietly downstairs. Exhaling, Philip reached for his book. She paused to check in on Paige and Henry first, unclasping her watch as she slipped into the bedroom a moment later.

He looked up. “How’d it go?”

“I got it.”

Clearly pleased at her success, she headed over to the dresser, tone crisp, confident. He nodded, studying her face.

“Great.”

“We’re gonna need cars,” Elizabeth pulled off her sweater, briefly pausing, “so, I think maybe--”

He froze, not hearing her, eyes locked on the angry red lashes strapped across her back. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Shaking her hair out, she dropped the sweater, voice as much tired as annoyed. “It’s nothing.”

“That . . . that’s not nothing.” Chest so tight it was suddenly difficult to breathe, he set the book down and crossed the room to her side.

“It’s fine. He was,” shrugging, Elizabeth turned to the dresser, “a little weird.”

“Let me see.”

She frowned, voice growing sharp. “I said it was fine.”

“How can you _say_ that?” Trying to be gentle, he lifted her hair.

“It,” flinching when his thumb brushed her neck, she held out a hand to stop him, “happens sometimes, Philip.”

He swallowed, unable to take his eyes off the welts. Pinking around the edges, they were already starting to swell, dark, vicious colors harsh against the cream of her skin. Careful not to touch them, he smoothed her hair back.

“Can I just--?”

A sound caught in the back of her throat the moment his fingers made contact, choked off before it could form. Frozen in place, he watched her mouth waver at the corners, a spastic twitch in her cheek betraying pain she couldn’t quite conceal. She swallowed, eyes still down, just like before unable even to look at him.

Barely able to contain his rage, he sucked in a shallow breath, forcing his head to clear. _Shoes. Gun. Silencer._ “I’m gonna deal with it.”

“You’re gonna _deal_ with it?” She turned at the dresser, voice picked up a dangerous note.

“Yeah.”

Yanking on his shoes, he jerked the zipper hard enough to break it. Elizabeth crossed the room, standing over him in her bra and skirt.

“If I’d wanted to _deal_ with him, you don’t think he’d be _dealt_ with?” Eyes hard, anger laced her every word. “I wanted the Intel, and I got it.”

No different from the excuses she’d tried to make before, that _it was a long time ago_ , that _she’d put it behind her_ , they were nothing but empty words, ones that paled in the face of the unfettered rage written in every line of her face as she pummeled Timoshev to the floor of their garage, the haunted anger in her eyes as she stood, shaking and triumphant, over the man who’d long ago brutalized her enough to hollow him inside, to leave him sick at the thought of the tightly bottled pain she’d suffered through all those years alone.

_Never again._

Grunting, he brushed past her. “Great. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Philip, I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, hazarding a glance towards the kids’ rooms. “It’s over. Let’s just go to bed.”

Breathing hard as if he’d run for miles, he hesitated only a second before turning for the stairs.

_“Philip.”_

Hands steady and head clear, he punched in the code to the circuit breaker box and grabbed his gun off the shelf, checking the chamber before shoving in a clip. Elizabeth’s boots clacked on the stairs.

“What the _hell_ is wrong with you?” She grabbed his arm, eyes dark and face lined with fury.

Heart pounding hard enough to hurt, he stared back at her. “Someone beat the _shit_ out of my wife.”

“I can handle it. It is my _job_ ,” she hissed, glaring.

He shook his head, unwilling to let her once again write it all off for the sake of duty, denying herself the right to so much as _have_ personal hurts. “I know, but you don’t deserve it.”

“Philip, _stop_.” She tried to grab him, an angry exhalation following when he twisted out of her grip. “You are _not_ my daddy.”

It was something in the way she spat his name that struck a nerve, the icy resentment in her voice catching hard in a familiar place. Chest heaving from the effort to breathe, he slowed and then turned, voice low.

“No, I’m not your _daddy_. I’m your _husband_ , Elizabeth. What do you think husbands _do_?”

She stared back at him, eyes unwavering. “I wouldn’t know.”

The words uttered without an ounce of feeling, she brushed past him, expression calm and cold. Punched in the gut, he let her pass, a weight forming in his chest as her footsteps faded up the stairs. A door shut. Still breathing hard, he jammed his fist into the workbench, wanting to punch a hole in the wall. He lowered his head, briefly debating whether to go after Schultz anyway before finally conceding it would only make matters worse. Sticking the gun back in the cabinet, he snapped off the light.

A single lamp was still on, the water running in the bathroom. Closing the door, he undressed and pulled back the covers, stomach knotted.

The light snapped off. Elizabeth came out in one of his old t-shirts and a pair of maroon knee socks that on any other occasion he would’ve teased her about. Not bothering to direct so much as a glance his way, she got into bed and reached for the lamp, turning her back to him indifferently as if everything they’d shared in recent weeks had never happened, neatly rescinded as if none of it had mattered to her at all.

Chest tight enough to ache, he didn’t react, simply stared up at the shadows forming on the ceiling, nowhere close to sleep.

 

* * *

 

It was during their first week together on the job that he started to suspect she’d imagined killing him.

Their ability to disagree on every subject from who drove to where to hang towels by the shower mildly impressive if only from a statistical perspective, navigating the day required a carefully woven path through a minefield. A walking ball of nerves, Elizabeth remained tightly on edge from the moment the door to their motel room shut. Up in the mornings before him, she combed through every article in the previous day’s paper, scanning for information and quietly reading aloud to practice her pronunciation. Determining by the third day she was reluctant to shower or even use the toilet with him in the room, he’d quickly picked up the habit of smoking.

Having more than once been taken aside by Zhukov during training and advised theirs was a particularly well-suited match, he could only wonder if the Colonel had ever been married.

The Saturday after their entry into Canada, he awoke to discover her gone. Rubbing his eyes, he fumbled around on the nightstand, finding only his watch and billfold. No note, as usual. A little relieved to have the room to himself, he yawned and climbed out of bed.

He was almost done shaving by the time keys jingled in the lock. The door opened, then closed, a short huff of annoyance immediately following. Shaking his head, he stuck the razor under the faucet, ignoring the sharp ruffle of the comforter meant to inform him he’d once again neglected to make the bed.

The box spring gave a tired squeak when she sat down. “I checked the signal site.”

It had quickly been established there was to be no pretense of greetings or false pleasantries, their conversations from the previous day simply flowing uninterrupted into the next.

“Yeah?” Able to guess the answer from her tone, he bent over the sink to splash water on his face.

“Nothing.”

Dabbing on aftershave, he stuck the bottle back in his kit and snapped off the light. “It hasn’t been a week yet.”

Elizabeth glanced up when came out of the bathroom, getting a half-second look at the towel around his waist before turning to study the wall. Sighing, he crossed the room and stuck the shaving kit in his suitcase. She didn’t say anything while he dressed, finally clearing her throat once he sank onto the bed to put his shoes on.

“Maybe there was some sort of delay getting our passports sent over.”

“Maybe.” He reached for his coat. “Remember that place in town we passed the other night, the one with the tables outside by the river? Do you want to try it for lunch?”

Ignoring him, she stood and began pacing the far side of the room. “We need to be _doing_ something.”

Philip took a breath and pocketed his wallet. “Our orders say we give the embassy guys ten days before contacting Ottawa. They could be under surveillance right now, waiting until they’re sure it’s clear to send someone.”

She lowered her head. “We’re wasting time here.”

He snapped the clasp on his watch, the conversation one they’d already had no shortage of times before. “You ready for breakfast?”

She made no move towards the door, jaw set and lips hovering in a thin line.

Exasperated, Philip shook his head. “What exactly do you propose we do? Directly defy orders? On our first assignment when we haven’t even made it into the _country_ yet?”

“We could be doing _more_.” She gestured with one hand. “ _Looking_ for something useful to send back once we’re in place. _Show_ the Centre we can produce results even when things don’t go as planned.” Frowning, she shot him a look. “Not just sitting in restaurants trying their food and wandering through the streets like tourists who have nothing better to do than shop for souvenirs. After everything they went through to train us, all those years spent in preparation, we can’t just--”

“Look.” Folding his arms, he studied her face. “We’re here however long it takes them to get our passports in order. Then we get settled in the U.S. and start gathering intelligence for real. While we’re stuck here, it only makes sense to learn as much as we can so there aren’t any slip-ups later. We’re supposed to blend in, make it believable.”

Elizabeth stared at him, eyes wide.

“It doesn’t _bother_ you at all?” Frustration finally bled into her tone. “Their arrogance? Watching how much they waste, leave on their plates after every meal to just be thrown away, not caring there are people elsewhere in the world who are _starving_? And we’re just supposed to go along with it? That doesn’t make you--”

“’Course it does.” Staring back at her, he shook his head. “But it’s what they sent us here to do.”

For a moment, neither moved. Setting her jaw, Elizabeth grabbed her sweater off the bed. He locked the door to their motel room and pocketed the key, ignoring the look she gave him as they headed for the diner across the road.

“Morning, Steve.”

Turning, Philip assumed an easy grin and gave the manager a nod. “Joe. How’s it going?”

“No complaints.”

Philip smiled and slid a hand to Elizabeth’s back.

She didn’t react, waiting until they reached the street to remark under her breath, “I see you’ve made a new friend.”

The note of sarcasm was hard to miss. Glancing both ways, he dropped the hand from her back. “He was out there the other night when I went to get ice. We started talking.”

She shook her head. “That’s helpful.”

He lowered his voice. “As helpful as you driving by the park five times a day? Combing through the newspapers every morning as if after less than a week here, _you’re_ going to spot some crucial piece of intelligence the Rezidentura officers don’t?”

Stopping at the far side of the road, she glared up at him, their faces inches apart. “At least I’m _doing_ something. You seem to think you were sent here for vacation.”

The accusation hung in the air between them, the hardness in her eyes declaring she wasn’t the least bit sorry for having made it. Tempted to correct her English, he bit back the impulse, suspecting he’d pay for it far longer than any brief note of satisfaction doing so might bring.

“We should hurry up and have breakfast, get to work.” Tone authoritative, she lifted her chin and pushed past him.

He grunted under his breath. “Yeah, maybe if we ask, they’ll let us have a copy of the menu for you to send home. I’m sure the Centre would be fascinated to learn what kind of eggs you can get here.”

She froze, slowly turning to face him. Not backing down, he watched fury flood her features, the all too familiar disappointment in her eyes impossible to mask. Seconds ticked by. Shaking her head, she gave him one final look of disgust and turned on her heel, stalking off to the restaurant alone.

 

* * *

 

“I’m home.”

Pausing just inside the door, Philip dropped his keys on the table and slid out of his coat, waiting seconds for a response that didn’t come. The oven door closed with a thump, Elizabeth’s voice carrying from the kitchen over the sound of the vent fan.

“Henry, I already asked you once to set the table.”

A chair scraped the floor, the metallic clink of silverware being picked from the drawer one piece at a time grudging at best. Henry looked up warily at his arrival, their morning spat over the thermos clearly not forgotten. Tousling his hair, Philip reached over to take the silverware.

“Go tell your sister dinner’s ready.”

He made no move to go, edging closer like he wanted a hug. Dropping the silverware on the table, Philip leaned over to grab him, what started as a bear hug after a few seconds dissolving into tickling.

Clinging to him for a moment once freed, Henry peered carefully across the kitchen and motioned him closer. “She’s not allowed to come down.”

Elizabeth set her mouth and stirred butter into the green beans, still not meeting his eyes. Philip frowned and gave his back a pat.

“Run upstairs and get her.”

Waiting until he was gone, Elizabeth lowered her voice. “Her French teacher called a little while ago. She caught her copying on the quiz this morning.”

Philip shook his head, leaning against the counter. “And she’s sure that’s what--”

“Paige told me she did it.” Brushing past him, she put the bowl of green beans on the table. “Did you remember to go over the assignment with her last night?”

Not missing the subtle note of accusation in the question’s asking, he grunted, choosing not to answer. Elizabeth salted the potatoes and poured in a dash of milk, all but ignoring him. After a moment he pushed away from the counter.

“Why don’t I go up there, have a talk with her before--”

“I already did,” she interrupted smoothly. Turning from the stove, she handed him the hot pads and pointed to the meatloaf, something in her eyes almost daring him to challenge her.

He lowered his eyes but didn’t respond, refusing to take the bait. Dinner involved a good deal of pushing meatloaf around plates and very little conversation. Waiting until Henry finished eating and went upstairs, Elizabeth turned to Paige.

“No TV or phone until you bring your grade up. And if you _ever_ lie to us again, you’ll be grounded for a month.” Voice hard, she raised an eyebrow. “Are we clear?”

Paige nodded, eyes glued to an uneaten pile of mashed potatoes.

Philip took a breath. “Go upstairs and get started on your homework.”

She cleared her plate without looking at either of them, silently shuffling up the stairs. Sipping her wine, Elizabeth stared blankly ahead. He glanced over at her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Frowning, she abruptly rose to clear the table. “We got a message over the wireless. Meeting tonight with Grannie over at the park.”

He studied her profile. “You want me to take it or--?”

“I’ll go.” She loaded the plates into the dishwasher and punched the button. “If the kids ask, tell them I went out to pick up a prescription. You’ll make sure she goes over French?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

She met his eyes, tone indicating the state of things between them was anything but. Not reacting, he waited until she left the room to toss the dishtowel tiredly on the counter.

Their relationship, for what it was, had been different from the start. She was the last thing he’d expected--beautiful, staunchly determined, and seemingly immune to all efforts to get her to smile. Partners in every sense of the word, he found himself drawn to her in a way he could no sooner have admitted than explained, unable to help but search for cracks in what at times seemed an impenetrable exterior, something in the mystery behind unfathomable gray-green eyes only intriguing him more.

Isolation forging an unexpected bond, she was the only one from whom he didn’t have to keep secrets, the one who knew the lies he told, what move he would make in the field even before he could react, the way his breath smelled in the morning and how he liked his eggs. Their intimacy at first forced by circumstance, over time it grew to be a source of familiarity, and much later, comfort. She was the only one who understood the guilt that crept in, trapped him in the worst moments, what they were required to do at times not only unthinkable, but inhuman. It was her hands that coaxed the tension from his neck as he sat in their kitchen, the pain barely numbed after too many glasses of scotch, her voice clear and steady as day, whispering it wasn’t his fault, that she knew he hadn’t meant for things to go so wrong, the only one who came close to understanding, who never had to ask why he retreated into himself, unable to shrug it off to duty or necessity, on the occasion they had to take a life.

Captivating him in a way no other woman ever had, it was the most bitter of ironies that she refused even to incline her chin in his direction, voice never more devoid of emotion than the night she informed him they were to begin sleeping together. She was quick to remind him when he got too close that every second they spent together on U.S. soil was for their cover and nothing more, that they were there to do a job, _Philip Jennings_ an entity than existed no more than _Scott_ or _Steve_ , their marriage a single, falsified sheet of paper filed with the Commonwealth of Virginia and nothing more.

It was her pregnancy with Paige that marked a turning point, throwing the falsity of everything else into sharp relief. Aware she hadn’t taken her pills in months, her announcement they’d conceived nonetheless stirred something unexpected inside him, a sudden fierce protectiveness hard to subdue. Unable to stomach the thought of something happening to either of them, he couldn’t help but worry about her safety the second she left the house, fighting the compulsion to follow at a distance even knowing he would pay for it for weeks if she spotted the tail. The intensity of it stopping him cold, it forced him to acknowledge what had formed without notice or intent, their contrived identities no longer just that, slowly becoming . . . _real_.

His wife. _His_ child growing in the beautiful, ripening curve of her belly, a marriage that was supposed to appear genuine and feel false forming something between them he hadn’t expected, the place they occupied together the first he felt no desire ever to leave. It was . . . _steadying_ , the predictability of a relationship that had slowly grown despite the absence of passion a source of unexpected comfort, rooting him firmly in place, her husband, their father, his truest reflection.

He could see, even now, that it scared her. That the thought of defining what was happening between them, of questioning what it was coming to mean to her and what it had for much longer meant to him, frightened her in a way she didn’t want to admit. It was there in the way she let her hair obscure her face when he came up behind her, in her tendency to close her eyes before he did when they made love. Never wanting to be anywhere else, he had no desire to retreat by force of habit to a safer place in the back of his mind to speed the mechanics along, relinquishing the one time he could linger in it, for a matter of minutes let his guard down and allow the intimacy of what they were doing wash over him, feel the heat of her breath and the softness of her legs clutched around his hips, in that moment, _Philip Jennings_ the only man he ever wanted to be.

Rubbing his face, he straightened and pushed away from the counter. The house was quiet, its occupants having retreated to private corners to lick their wounds. Digging a Hershey bar out of the box at the bottom of the freezer, he snapped it into thirds and headed upstairs.

“Hey.”

Leaning through the doorway to Henry’s room, he tossed him part of the chocolate. Henry sat up on the bed and grinned, catching it. Winking, Philip reached for the door.

“Make sure to brush your teeth.”

Paige was in her pajamas, curled up under the covers with her French book and the old stuffed bear that had more recently taken up residence in Henry’s room. She looked away when he rapped on the door, eyes red and puffy. Not pushing it, he took a seat on the end of her bed and broke off a square of chocolate. Paige accepted it, fresh tears welling in her eyes.

Philip said nothing, just stuck his piece in his mouth. After a moment, Paige did the same. Finally she wiped her cheeks and rubbed one of Mr. Bear’s ears.

“I knew it was wrong.” Pressing her lips together, she swallowed. “I felt awful as soon as I did it.”

Nodding silently, he broke off another piece of chocolate.

“So why do it?”

Paige shrugged, hugging Mr. Bear tighter. “I didn’t know the answers. I knew you and Mom would be mad when you saw the grade. That you’d ground me.”

He glanced up at her. “This feel any better?”

“No.” Voice breaking, she wiped her nose. “I’m sorry.”

Offering another square of chocolate, he gestured over to her desk. “So did you not understand the assignment, or--?”

“No . . . I do now.” Paige fiddled with the edge of her comforter. “It’s just . . . sometimes it’s been hard to concentrate lately, you know? With school and all.”

“Sure.”

Suspecting the answer had more to do with the Beeman kid from across the street than she wanted him to know, he didn’t push. Paige dried her eyes on the sleeve of her pajamas.

“Where’d mom go?”

“The drugstore.” He pushed off the bed and bent to kiss the top of her head. “Study for a bit longer and then we’ll review before lights out.”

Picking at Mr. Bear’s fur, Paige nodded. Philip paused at the door, waiting until she looked up at him.

“I love you.”

She flashed him a quavering smile, eyes once again bright. “I love you too, Daddy.”

It was well after nine before Elizabeth returned. Slipping in the front door, she hung up her coat and came into the kitchen, not reacting when she saw him at the table. She took a white paper pharmacy bag out of her purse and set it on the counter.

“You didn’t have to wait up.”

He stared at his drink, swirling the single ice cube around the glass for a minute before setting it aside. “So what’d Grannie say?”

“She’ll get us the information on license plates and base locations.” Elizabeth propped a hand on her hip and shook her hair over one shoulder. “We’ll have to park somewhere we can monitor the exit, wait until one of them passes.”

“Won’t be easy getting in the trunk.”

“No,” she agreed, looking down. “I’ll signal Gregory in the morning, let him know we need cars.”

Not reacting outwardly, Philip downed the last of his scotch. Elizabeth met his eyes, silently warning him not to follow, and strode from the room.

 

* * *

 

The morning alone was surprisingly pleasant, the day sunny and slightly cool. Taking the bus into town after breakfast, he wandered the streets alone for a few hours, had coffee in one of the shops and pretended to leaf through the paper, just listening.

It was the instinctive ability to mimic accents that initially caught the attention of his superiors, the struggles the rest of their training class encountered over the subtle difference in _bat_ and _bet_ of seemingly little difficulty. Quickly moved up into a more specialized group, he was given intensive instruction, a native speaker brought in to assist with lectures.

Introduced to them only as _John Jones_ , he read aloud from textbooks and newspapers to allow them to absorb tone and the nuance of his inflection, later using staged conversations to carefully identify and correct flaws in their speech. Immediately curious how he’d come to be there, they all knew better than to ask. A strange, nervous man, his clothes smelled strongly of smoke and his breath of alcohol, the unexplained jumpiness in his manner invoking instant caution. Exiting the room each day, shoulders stiff and eyes down, he was ushered away to locations unknown, someone always following at a distance, his hand quick to fumble for the flask in his breast pocket as soon as his time with them was over.

What he provided valuable, it was far more useful to sit in a park or café and observe the way they interacted with each other. There was a subtlety to the rhythm of it difficult to convey in lessons alone, more than just what was said, but the manner in which it was delivered, which words they chose and which were lazily omitted. The phrases they’d all learned by rote correct in a purely grammatical sense, they lacked the careless fluidity of a natural exchange, a slip of that sort arousing curiosity they couldn’t afford, to successfully complete their mission requiring something far more in depth, an act of mimicry finely tuned to the last detail.

He left the coffee shop just before noon, meandering over to the restaurant by the river for a cold beer and his first steak. Casually flipping through an auto magazine from the newsstand, he caught a reflection in his water glass of a slim figure in a dark plaid dress. Grunting under his breath, he let her slip up behind him, waiting until she was within feet of his shoulder to speak.

“Guess you found it okay.”

Not responding, Elizabeth dropped her purse in the adjacent chair and slid into the seat across from him. She didn’t return his smile, but leaned over to steal his water.

“Nine o’clock. Tonight.”

He reached for his beer. “It came?”

She nodded and took another drink, obvious relief and a dash of excitement he knew she never would’ve admitted to flashing in her eyes. “I--”

Cutting off abruptly when the waitress approached with a menu, she smiled in a disarming way and tucked her hair behind one ear. “Thank you.” She leaned over to him, lowering her voice. “What did you order?”

“A steak.”

Expecting her to balk at the extravagance, he was surprised when she simply handed back the menu and nodded. “I will have the same.”

He took another swallow of beer, staring out at the water. Elizabeth frowned, nodding slowly as she spoke.

“We can’t let them down. We were chosen to do this. It’s important that we make a difference, do everything we can to end the conflict.”

Not responding for a moment, he leaned forward to rest his arms on the table. “It’s important to me too.”

Her beer came. Taking a sip, she met his eyes. “I don’t want us to fail before we’re even inserted.”

“Neither do I,” he glanced over one shoulder, “but you know as well as I do we’re going to have to learn to work together in the field or this will never work. No one’s going to buy us as a married couple if we can’t even sit through breakfast together without getting in a fight. All the time they spent training us was for _this_. So that we could fit in, pass as Americans and use that to our advantage.”

Elizabeth looked away. He fiddled with the beer bottle, continuing in a softer voice.

“That’s what we should be using this time to do. Figuring out how they talk, how they act, and how they _think_. The more we can immerse ourselves in understanding them, in _becoming_ them, the better we can do our jobs.”

Elizabeth turned to stare at him.

“ _Becoming_ them?” She whispered it incredulously, almost an accusation.

Philip sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Not _becoming_ them, exactly . . . but getting inside their heads. Learning their weaknesses, how to think the way they do so we can predict their next move. This is the perfect chance, while we’re stuck here, to _really_ get a feel for how they do things. No one knows us here. If we slip up, make a mistake, it won’t be remembered. This is the time to practice and see what works and what makes people suspicious.”

Straightening when their food came, Philip smiled at the waitress and reached for his napkin. He waited for Elizabeth to cut off a small piece of her steak, watching her try the first taste.

“So,” he took a bite, savoring the smoky flavor of it, “what do you think?”

She swallowed and sipped her beer, finally shrugging. “It isn’t bad. I’ll probably be sick after eating so much meat. We could have ordered just one of them.”

Pretending to eye her suspiciously, he pulled his plate a little closer. Staring at him in surprise for a second, Elizabeth quickly covered her mouth and looked away, but not before he caught a smile. She cleared her throat and cut off another bite.

“I’ll finish yours if you can’t,” he offered, winking.

Narrowing her eyes, she shook her head. They finished eating in silence. She traced her fingertips over the tablecloth once the waitress cleared their plates.

“It’s . . . different than I expected.” She stared out at the river. “Being here.”

Studying her face, he slowly nodded.

She folded her napkin, taking more time than was necessary in the task, something in her silence leaving him unable to reject the sudden suspicion she wouldn’t have bothered making up with him if there was any other option for company. Clearing his throat, he glanced around.

“We should stop on the way back to the motel, pick up a souvenir or two so we’ll be ready to leave first thing.”

Expression returning to normal, Elizabeth sat up straighter and nodded. By the time evening rolled around, the tension had dissipated, planning out the particulars of an assignment the one thing they seemed capable of doing without fighting. Knotting her jacket, Elizabeth tied her hair back and put out a hand for the keys to the Mercury.

“I’ll drive.”

They made a pass around the meeting site, parking a few blocks away. “Looks clear,” he murmured, surveying the street behind them. “You sure--”

“It’s almost nine,” Elizabeth interrupted, checking her watch. “You need to go.”

Philip reached for the door. The streets were less crowded than during the day, sparse pockets of mildly intoxicated tourists talking loudly as they passed. Sticking both hands in his pockets, he wandered up the hill to the bus stop and took a seat on the bench.

It didn’t take long. Their contact would’ve caught his attention even if not for the gray scarf or newspaper in his hand, the nervous way he kept peering over one shoulder every few yards alarmingly obvious to anyone who knew what to look for.

_“Shit.”_

Muttering it under his breath, Philip pulled out a cigarette. He lit it and hunched forward on the bench, not needing to glance off to the north to know she’d see the signal.

The man approached and cleared his throat. “You don’t mind if I sit here, do you? My wife won’t let me smoke in our motel room.”

Philip shook his head, the telltale way he stumbled over the second sentence a better confirmation than any code phrase could’ve provided. “Join the club.”

Their embassy contact set the newspaper between them and dug into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Philip hunched his shoulders when the wind gusted, making a quick scan of the street.

“Guy in the brown coat.” He said it quietly, not turning his head. “Off to the left. Ten o’clock. He been following you?”

“I don’t know.”

To his credit, he didn’t look. Philip took another drag on his cigarette, tapping it on the bench as the bus lumbered around the corner. He waited until it was within twenty feet before reaching down to collect the newspaper, muttering under his breath.

“Wait thirty seconds and then head the other direction. Don’t follow me.”

Stuffing the folded newspaper into his jacket, he turned up his collar. The bus groaned and huffed, pulling to a clumsy stop. A couple got off and then a man, the latter tall enough to block him as he quietly slid into a seat. Hunching lower as if he were tired, Philip halfway closed his eyes, surreptitiously checking back to see if their contact was blown as the bus whisked him off into the night.

 

* * *

 

“Keep the change.”

Pushing a few bucks across the counter, Philip grabbed the bag and two coffees. The rain had stopped, the early evening air misty but cool. Carefully scanning both sides of the street, he stepped off the curb.

Not risking parking in the same location they’d used earlier that morning, he picked a spot two blocks closer to the Metro. She saw him as soon as she cleared the line of trees hanging over the road, a brief hitch in her pace matching the sudden thinness of her mouth. He pushed away from the car and handed her one of the Styrofoam cups.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she accepted the coffee, remarking over one shoulder, “you didn’t have to pick me up.”

He shook his head, not bothering to point out if he’d thought she was in any real danger, she would’ve seen him coming rather than the other way around. “Didn’t have to bring you coffee either. Or a vanilla crème doughnut.”

For once, humor worked. Their eyes met over the top of the car, a smile starting to tug at her lips. Climbing into the passenger side, she turned to face him, the tilt of her mouth no longer angry.

He looked down, taking a moment to compose himself. “I’m sorry about before.”

Shifting in the seat, she leaned back and stared out at the sidewalk. “You know, we have to do all sorts of things for our work,” she shook her head, voice hesitant, thoughtful, “and it requires _being_ a certain way.”

Philip frowned. “What _exactly_ are you talking about?”

Still looking out the window, she waited a minute before answering. “You know what I wish, as I fall asleep every night?” She swallowed, voice softer. “That I’ll wake up . . . and not be _worried_.”

He studied her profile. “About what?”

She exhaled, eyes far away.

“Everything.”

It was the weight of the word that struck him more than the answer itself. He knew she worried, listened to her breathing grow tight and contained beside him in bed as she whispered about Paige’s capitalist preoccupation with legwarmers and Henry’s periodic lack of effort in school, trivial concerns swirling in a perpetual maelstrom around far darker fears neither wanted to think about, concern for their future keeping her from sleep, all of it kept locked away in a cold, private place no words of reassurance could touch.

Careful to keep his voice even, Philip took a breath. “You can’t live like that.”

The statement gentle, it was the farthest thing from an accusation. Elizabeth turned to stare at him, eyes wide and soft.

“Show me another way.”

He nodded slowly, after a moment starting the car. They rode in silence, Elizabeth’s stomach giving a muffled growl before she unfolded the bag and carefully extracted her doughnut. She nibbled off a bite, flurries of powdered sugar sprinkling over her jacket and sticking to her upper lip. Philip smiled, quickly turning when she looked his way.

_“What?”_

“Nothing,” he murmured, straight-faced.

Mouth curling up just a little at the corners, she gestured with her chin. “You want yours?”

He shook his head, voice dry. “We both know I’m just gonna get chocolate all over the car.”

“Here.” Balancing the coffee between her knees, she dug into the bag and pulled him off a bite.

He leaned over at the next light and let her poke it in his mouth. She licked the chocolate from her fingers and took a sip of coffee.

“I’m surprised you waited.”

“Almost didn’t.” Cheek twitching, he shrugged. “You always did walk kinda slow.”

She narrowed her eyes, a smile forming. “Did you talk to Paige?”

“Yeah.” He slowed with traffic. “She made a dumb mistake. Don’t think she’ll do it again.”

Elizabeth fell silent. She wiped her mouth with one finger and leaned back in the seat. “Lately she’s been all over the place. One minute things are fine and the next--”

“Yeah, well,” glancing in the mirror, he turned into the garage, “she’s at that age.”

“It’s more than that.” Elizabeth closed her eyes. “She doesn’t have any _direction_. Nothing _driving_ her. _Nothing_ she’s passionate about.”

“I think you’re making a big deal outta nothing.” Pulling into a spot, he shut off the engine. “She’s fine. One dumb screw-up isn’t the end of the world.”

Shaking her head, Elizabeth pushed her hair back. “It’s late. They’ll be getting hungry by now.”

“Yeah.” Philip checked his watch. “I’ll wipe the car down while you change, find a pay phone and tell them we got stuck in a late meeting. Maybe have Paige wait twenty minutes, then call in a pizza we can pick up on the way.” Fingering the car keys, he cleared his throat. “We okay?”

A smile twitched at her lips. Looking down, she nodded. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” He leaned across the seat, watching her smile grow.

They kissed softly, mouths gradually molding together, slow to ease back apart. Wiping a bit of sugar off his lip, she touched his chin, mouth still twisted up at the corners.

He angled down to kiss her neck. “You wanna make up later?”

She giggled, fingers curling in his hair.

“Mm-hmm.”

Lips slowly working their way higher, he let his hands slide to her waist. “You wanna make up now?”

Giggling again, she shoved his shoulder and dug in his pocket for the keys to the Oldsmobile, giving him one final kiss before reaching for the door.

 

* * *

 

He would’ve recognized her footsteps even if they hadn’t been the only two people in the chapel at that time of night, something in the authoritative way she walked an anomaly among women. Elizabeth stopped just inside the doorway, waiting for him. Pushing up from the pew, Philip stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Took your time.”

“Do you want to walk the rest of the way?”

He smiled at her back and shook his head, following her out to the car. It had started to rain, a rumble of thunder in the distance promising more to come. Elizabeth dropped the keys in his hand, tucking her hair behind one ear before climbing into the passenger seat.

“Did you get them?”

“Yeah.” He pulled the folded newspaper from his jacket and started the car. “They’re good.”

“Anything else?” She slipped their new passports into her purse, squinting at the newspaper in the faint light from streetlamps.

“Didn’t have time to check it.” He glanced her way. “Guy in the brown coat?”

“Kept walking.”

Letting out a breath, he nodded. “Good.”

She switched on the lamp as soon as they were back at the motel, taking off her sweater and slipping out of her heels. Grabbing a pencil and pad from her suitcase, she sat at the edge of the bed. Philip took off his wet coat and undid a button at his collar, dropping the keys on the dresser.

“So?”

“Part of the crossword is filled out.” Clearly excited, she looked up at him. “You have it?”

“Yeah.” Taking a seat beside her on the bed, he unlaced his shoes. The false lining popped out easily enough, the slip of paper containing the cypher carefully hidden inside.

Elizabeth took it from him, their fingers brushing. Pushing her hair back, she bent over the newspaper, brow furrowed as she worked. Propping one hand a respectful distance behind her on the bed, Philip leaned closer to watch over her shoulder.

Closer than she’d yet allowed him, it was hard not to notice she smelled good, hair swishing lightly back and forth with every letter she leaned over to fill in. He let his eyes drift to her shoulder, the skin at the base of her neck soft and pale with a small, round mole tucked near the edge of her hairline. Distracted in wondering if her throat would feel warm under his lips if he leaned forward to press a kiss there, he quickly sat up when she turned his way.

“I was worried,” blinking, she shook her head, “as soon as I saw him. He was so obvious. That he hadn’t spent any time in the field.”

“Yeah.” Philip stole a glance at her bare arm while she wrote, eyes settling where her elbow rested at the narrow cinch of her waist. Squinting, he rubbed his face, trying not to picture what she looked like undressed. “Probably one of the lower level embassy officers they thought no one would bother with. Least it worked out okay.”

He leaned back over her shoulder while she continued decoding the message. Ponytail swaying inches away, Elizabeth paused suddenly in her work, fingers curling nervously at her neck.

“I can do it,” she hesitated, the words halting, “if you need to pack your things.”

He studied her profile, careful to keep his voice soft. “Sure.”

Rising from the bed, he dug the Dopp kit and a change of clothes from his suitcase, surprised to find himself unexpectedly . . . agitated. Stepping into the shower, he allowed a minute for the hot water to stream over his back before bracing an arm against the wall and reaching down, letting his hand finish the job.

Elizabeth had her luggage open when he came out, clothes neatly spread across her side of the bed. Casting a look at him, she hurriedly stuffed something white and lacy under a blouse. He kept his head down, putting his things back in the suitcase. Another round of thunder rumbled in the distance, rain pattering against the eaves outside.

“They want us to take the bus across.” She glanced up at him when he leaned over to flip on the TV set. “Think it’s safer if we wait to get on a train once we get to Buffalo.”

“Sure.” Relaxed, he flopped on the bed and stuck an arm behind his head, watching her pack. “Is that what you bought? Can I see?”

She passed across something heavy wrapped in brown paper. Unwrapping it, he turned the strange, yellow glass vase over in his hands, trying to come up with something to say.

“It’s . . . nice.”

She shrugged and put out a hand to take it back. “We had to have something in case they go through our bags at Customs.”

He studied her face, unsure if she’d chosen it because she liked the color or because she felt it was the gaudiest item in the store, the last thing she herself ever would’ve chosen, and therefore exactly what some American woman would’ve bought for herself. Propping himself on one elbow, he watched her fold a dress and tuck it neatly in place.

“We did it.”

Elizabeth met his eyes, offering a brief smile. “We should have breakfast early tomorrow, catch the first bus.”

Humoring her, he nodded. “Sure.”

Taking more time than necessary in gathering her robe and things for the shower, she looked down, clearly waiting for him to make some excuse to leave the room. He frowned and glanced towards the window, uneager to spend half an hour outside in the rain.

“You mind if I watch a little TV?” He kept his voice low, not wanting to spark another disagreement.

Something he couldn’t read jerking in her cheek, she ran a hand through her hair, finally shrugging. He settled back against the pillows and turned his attention to the news program, careful not to look up when the bathroom door quietly shut behind her.

 

 


	6. Trust Me

_Content Warning: References to torture and Elizabeth’s history as a rape survivor._

 

* * *

 

It always started with a morning too still and tranquil to trust, the softest creak from the far side of the house setting her on edge. Eyes locked on the ceiling for a long moment, she quietly picked up the knife.

Light streamed in through the high, arched window over the stairs, the floor cool and smooth under her toes. Barely breathing, she crept forward, inching her way along a wall lined with large paintings in dark, heavy frames. He’d teased her for them once, back when they’d first decorated the house, accused her of a penchant for solitary forests and vast, empty landscapes. A smile quirking at his lips as he suggested it, by then she knew better than to respond, with him even the most innocuous of questions a subtle effort to nose into places he knew he wasn’t allowed.

Wary, she nudged open the bedroom door. A bottle of perfume lay tipped on its side on the dresser, bumped on accident while she put the towels away, or perhaps when Philip had stumbled sleepily to the shower. Frowning, she straightened it, barely catching a subtle movement in the mirror. The shadow seemed to materialize out of nowhere in a corner she’d already checked, footsteps she hadn’t heard rushing up from behind as a hand shot out to grab her.

Falling back on their training, she turned into the attack. A clumsy fog obscured her vision, the unknown assailants dark and indistinct. Her arms and legs felt made of lead, weighing her down, slowing each punch and kick. There were too many of them. Too strong. Too fast. One of them grabbed her by the throat, the sudden, incomprehensible panic that came with lack of air suffocating her in a sickening wave. She lashed out, flailing, unable to reach. Something struck her hard in the face.

She came to on the floor, arms she couldn’t push off holding her down, pants bunched around her knees. Just like before, Philip was tied to a chair at the far end of the room, eyes dead and shoulders slumped. He would be forced to watch while they did it, each of the guards having a turn before leaving her there, hands bound, cheek rubbed raw where it pressed against the cold concrete.

And then they would ask him again, all the same questions, _him_ , not her, knowing he was the soft one, the one who would break. Him, the one she’d warned them couldn’t be trusted, who felt nothing strongly, not commitment, not devotion, even the way he _talked_ shifting to a lazy American drawl as he traded sports statistics with the salesman at the auto dealership. She’d seen the silent calculation in his eyes the day they moved into their house, walked from the entryway through the dining room to a kitchen and family room larger than the entire apartment she and her mother had lived in back in Smolensk, marveling at the extravagance of so much unneeded space. It seemed all but inevitable the moment would one day come he’d decide it was more convenient to be one of them, to enjoy their large, ugly cars and loud music, tenuous loyalties bought and sold for the price of a cheap beer and flavorless American hotdog.

They could’ve done anything to her. Beaten her for days. Left her cold and starving in a cell. It wouldn’t have mattered, whatever pain they might inflict serving only to prove once and for all Zhukov had been right in choosing her above all the others, trusting she would die before betraying the country she’d pledged her life to defend.

But despite that resolve, she lay on the damp warehouse floor sick with dread. That they’d eventually tire of using her after hours, days. That Philip wouldn’t crack. That one of the guards would be ordered to bring another chair, would drag her, pants still down, across the floor and tie her up alongside him. Her worst fear reflected in the pale, lifeless gray of his eyes, they would wait together while the interrogator casually lit a cigarette and took a long drag, pacing a few steps before, in a voice careless enough to inform them he’d have no qualms following through, sending someone to go get Paige.

Throat closing in panic, she tried to suck in a breath, unable to break free. Her hand struck something cold and hard. Water sloshed, a muffled thump following seconds later. Jerking awake, Elizabeth threw off the covers and fumbled for the lamp.

Light flooded the room, ominous shadows in the corner resolving into the dresser and chair. Heart pounding like an angry drum, Elizabeth raked the hair off her face, the burn ripping through her chest sickening in its intensity. Wrapping both arms around her middle, she slid out of bed.

Her fallen water glass had rolled across the floor, the bottom of one sock getting soaked as she hurried to the end of the hall. Henry didn’t stir when she crept over to his bed, arms strewn at odd angles around his face as if he’d been fighting off attempts to comb his hair even while asleep. Tears forming in her eyes, she smoothed his bangs, the mop of thick, straight hair the one thing he’d gotten from her rather than Philip. Swallowing, she tucked his beloved Star Wars blankets in place and backed away.

Paige required more caution, a lighter sleeper from the time she was a baby. Cracking the door just enough, Elizabeth stared at her back, watching the slow rise and fall of thin, angular shoulders, hair spilling out over the pillows, the thick, auburn mane she’d once plaited into braids for the first day of school long and lustrous. Hopping around the kitchen all morning in a pair of shiny red shoes Philip bought in honor of the occasion, Paige had wriggled in excitement to the point she could barely be captured long enough to twist on the rubber bands, darting away to grab her lunchbox the second she was freed.

A lump formed in her throat, the choking dread from before still lingering in the darkest corner of her mind. Screwing her eyes shut, Elizabeth wiped her cheeks and forced it back, quietly slipping out the door.

Philip was at the top of the stairs when she turned. Flinching, she clutched the neck of her nightgown and glared. He looked awful, hair disheveled, pajamas twisted crookedly at his hips, face lined and ashy. The bruises on his stomach had darkened to mottled blots of green and purple, ugly marks staining pale, tender skin. He’d taken no pains to hide them, shirt off whenever they crossed paths at night, the less than subtle attempt to provoke guilt only incensing her more.

Shaking her head in disgust, Elizabeth stalked past him without a backward glance, getting the door shut behind her just as her nose began to burn. She covered her mouth with one hand and slumped against the wall, tears streaming hot and pathetic down both cheeks. Chest squeezed by a giant fist, she could barely breathe, the pressure forcing itself harder and tighter until the weight threatened to crush her. Furious, she dragged her wrist under her nose and pushed away from the wall, going to the bathroom for a towel to clean up the spilled water.

At just past five in the morning, their house was silent as a tomb, the groan of the shower turning on an ugly intrusion. Pushing everything else from her mind, she stepped under the spray and let the hot water stream through her hair, fighting to keep her chin steady.

Some part of her always understood it wasn’t real, that the four of them were safe in their beds and would come downstairs to breakfast to engage in the usual morning arguments over forgotten homework and misplaced library books. That Paige would beg to wear a skirt that was too short while Henry distractedly stirred milk around his cereal bowl, Philip frowning at the sports section and blithely ignoring the chaos until she pushed a jar of peanut butter into his hand.

That knowledge brought no comfort. Better than anyone, she understood the lengths they would go to, a threat Paige and Henry couldn’t imagine hovering in every shadow, spying on them from a crevice between the bookshelves behind the TV and tracking innocent handfuls of bread tossed at a flock of scraggly ducks as they spent the day with Philip in the park. It was what happened the moment loyalty was called into question, when personal greed became more important than a vow solemnly sworn, traitors vanishing in the dead of night never to be heard from again. Balling her hand into a fist, Elizabeth pressed it to the cold tile, hating him all the more for the danger he’d put them in.

She climbed from the shower in a fog, set her hair without thinking. Hands no longer shaking by the time she got out her makeup, she turned to the mirror. Still a little tender, the mark above her cheek had faded to the point it could be covered, Paige and Henry’s eyes no longer widening when they glanced her way. Swallowing, she dabbed a bit of concealer, leaning closer to the mirror to dot it on.

The plastic makeup tray fumbled in her fingers and fell, the lid breaking off as it clattered against the hard tile. Cursing, Elizabeth stooped to retrieve the pieces, a sudden wave of dizziness forcing her to grapple for the bathtub’s edge.

She’d come to on the floor, already gagged. Hands tied and head throbbing where they’d slammed her in the face, a glimpse of wide black loafers against the pale wood of the hallway floor was the last thing she saw before they jerked the hood on and dragged her down the stairs.

They took her out through the garage, the load of laundry she’d put in after breakfast still tumbling quietly on the other side of the adjoining wall. She was thrown in the back of the Oldsmobile with every bit of the care they’d taken with Timoshev, head banging roughly against the far door, lingering remnants of a chocolate malt she’d once made the mistake of allowing Henry to finish on the way home from the mall mixing with the smell of dirt and shoes in the floor mats as she struggled in vain to loosen the ropes at her wrists. Only later had she realized the note of satisfaction her captors must’ve felt at seeing her lying there, bound on the floor of the very car the Centre had provided them for their cover, a filthy traitor.

Gritting her teeth, Elizabeth threw the broken makeup tray in the trash. Philip was standing at the sink when she came into the kitchen, a cup of coffee resting untouched on the counter by his hand. Staring blankly out at the falling snow, he sucked in a fast, tight breath when she came up behind him. She began getting out things for breakfast. He poured his coffee down the sink and left the room. Not reacting, she set her jaw and gave the tie on the bag of bread a vicious twist.

Henry trudged downstairs first. Yawning, he propped an elbow on the table. She put a glass of orange juice in front of him and hurried back to the stove to stir the eggs. He rotated the glass in slow circles, offering no sign of planning to drink it by the time Paige finally appeared. Face falling at the sight of breakfast, she pointed to the top of the fridge.

“Can I just have cereal?”

Stopping halfway to the table, Elizabeth shook her head. “I already made this. You can have cereal tomorrow.” Leaning over, she dished scrambled eggs onto three plates. “Do you want milk or orange juice with breakfast?”

Folding her arms, Paige shrugged. “If I can’t have cereal then I’m not hungry.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and lowered the pan. “Come sit down,” she ordered. Tapping Henry’s shoulder, she shot him a look. “Take your elbows off the table and drink your juice.”

She took the pan to the sink, careful to keep her head down when Philip came in with the paper. Not looking at her, he refilled his coffee cup and grabbed the plate of bacon.

“Mom, did my jacket get dry?”

Taking a quick sip of coffee, Elizabeth nodded. “It’s in the laundry. I’ll get it in a sec.”

She pulled out peanut butter and bread for lunches, waiting until Philip had a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth to clear her throat. Shaking his head in obvious annoyance, he pushed his plate away and rose from the table.

Downstairs, she yanked the laundry from the dryer, a pit slowly forming in her chest as the task of folding grew mundane. Fighting to keep her head clear, she closed her eyes, accidentally knocking the stack of towels with one elbow and sending them careening to the floor.

_“Shit.”_

Wanting to hurl the laundry basket into the wall, she covered her mouth with one hand. Philip didn’t look up when she returned. Stuffing the towels into the drawer beside the sink, she pushed it closed and handed the jacket over to Paige.

“It might be a little cold for you to--”

She froze in mid-sentence, staring at two bowls and a freshly opened box of Frosted Flakes, Henry fiddling spellbound with the cheap plastic prize from inside. Paige set her spoon down. It took three breaths before she could speak.

“I told you _no_ cereal.” She barely kept her voice level, lip beginning to tremble in anger.

Out of the corner of one eye she saw Philip shake his head, the gesture serving only to infuriate her more. Paige stared back at her, tone doused in false innocence.

“Dad said I could.”

Philip’s voice held a warning. “Paige--”

Grabbing their bowls, she marched them over to the sink and dumped the contents down the garbage disposal. Eyes on their placemats, Paige and Henry didn’t move. Elizabeth set her jaw and gripped the counter.

“Find your backpacks and get in the car.”

Philip looked down once they were gone, dropping his fork on the plate. “She didn’t tell me you--”

Ignoring him, she lifted her chin. “You have a meeting with Grannie later?”

He exhaled. “Yeah. You want me to pass anything along?”

She shook her head, pushing away from the counter to collect Paige and Henry’s plates.

“No.”

Philip said nothing. She loaded the plates into the dishwasher, pausing when he cleared his throat.

“Yesterday when I dropped off Henry there was a car parked across the street.” He didn’t look at her. “Same one I used to make the buy in Philly. I noticed it again on the way in to work. Stayed a few lengths back on the parkway.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, not even trying to deny it. “I asked him to watch from a distance.” She stared out the window at the falling snow. “See if we were still being followed.”

Philip snorted, the words dripping with disdain. “And you had him tail _me_?”

Not flinching, she met his eyes. “I needed someone I could trust.”

His nostrils flared, the angle of his mouth wounded and furious. Not responding for a moment, he gripped the coffee mug.

“Yeah, well, he’s being real professional about it. Tell him to back off. The last thing we need is Stan Beeman noticing something’s up.”

Folding a dishtowel, Elizabeth didn’t react. She forced her breathing to slow, smoothing her expression before turning.

“We’re meeting later.” She said it casually, enjoying the brief flash of anger in his eyes as she turned for the door. “I’ll pass it along.”

 

* * *

 

Somewhere between hell and sleep there was a baby crying. Elizabeth rubbed her eyes, vision blurry, figuring out when she tried to move that Philip’s butt had once again invaded her side of the bed and shoved itself up against her hip. Still groggy, she rolled over, accidentally elbowing him in the process.

“I’ll go.” Half-asleep, he mumbled it, head buried under a pillow.

Elizabeth pushed her hair back and staggered drunkenly towards the door. “Just get her bottle ready.”

She glanced at the clock more out of habit than necessity, able to tell from the buzzing ache in her head it had barely been an hour, two at most, since they’d put Paige down for a nap. Rubbing her face one last time, she crept into the nursery and bent over the crib to pick her up.

“Shh-shh.”

She whispered it, bouncing her gently as she carried her over to the table to change her diaper. After two months, she could’ve done it blindfolded. Hands moving mechanically, she got her cleaned up and fixed the snaps on her sleeper.

No longer crying, Paige stared up at her, one tiny hand batting harmlessly against the back of her wrist while she worked. Lifting her, Elizabeth pressed a kiss to the soft, sweet skin of her cheek, bouncing her slowly towards the rocking chair as Philip shuffled through the doorway shaking her bottle. He scratched his head, eyes bleary from lack of sleep and hair sticking out in every direction.

Yawning, he tested a few drops on the inside of his wrist and licked it clean. “Did she poop?”

She took the bottle from him and shook her head.

“Not yet.”

Philip stroked the top of Paige’s head and bent down to tickle her tummy. She gurgled happily, hand knocking against his nose.

“You want me to feed her?”

“Yeah.” She waited for him to drape a clean cloth over one shoulder before passing him Paige. “It’s almost four. I’ll check the shortwave.”

He didn’t argue. Ever so carefully, she removed a painting from the wall in their bedroom, setting it on the ground and retrieving the radio and one-time pad from the compartment behind it. Laying everything out on the bed, she dug in her nightstand for a piece of blank paper and tucked the earpiece in one ear, waiting for the numerical sequence that would signal the start of the message.

The encryption key swam in front of her eyes. Blinking, she took a breath to clear her head. They’d spent the first weeks after bringing Paige home from the hospital crabby and exhausted, life having come to revolve around endless feedings, laundry and diaper changes, topics of conversation limited to what had gone into the baby and what had come out. Demoted from the most necessary and critical of tasks to mind-numbing drudgery fit for a _babushka_ , it was a demoralizing blow, Philip’s constant reminders what she was doing was just as important as the assets he was working or the weapons buy he’d arranged south of town serving only to needle resentment.

For close to a month Paige slept only while being held, shrieking indignantly the moment either of them dared lay her in her crib. Desperate and close to losing her mind, she’d tried wrapping her tight as a bug in a cocoon, pushing her around the living room in her carriage when the weather was bad, even situating her on top of the humming washing machine just to rest her arms for a few minutes. Both of them wandering from room to room in a perpetual fog, she hadn’t even blinked upon finding a box of Cheerios in the refrigerator one morning, uncertain whether she or Philip was to blame.

_“Damn it.”_

Shaking her head, she bent over the scratch paper, catching the end of the signal sequence just in time. She steadied her pencil, copying down the code in swift, neat strokes. Philip came in as the final numbers were read. Nodding at her, he lowered his fly.

“She finished the bottle.” He yawned and flopped on the bed, tossing his jeans over the chair. “What’d they say?”

“It just ended.” Glancing over when he turned on his side, she frowned. “You’re going back to _sleep_?”

He sighed and didn’t answer. Huffing quietly, she set her jaw. Finally he rolled over.

“What is it that you want me to--?”

She didn’t look at him. “Nothing.”

He ran a hand through his hair.

_“What?”_

Still struggling to keep the numbers straight in her head, Elizabeth pushed her hair back and set the pencil down. “We’re almost out of formula. The laundry isn’t done. The bathroom needs cleaned--”

“We can stop at the store tonight.” Yawning again, Philip rubbed his face and stared at the ceiling. “And the bathroom isn’t _that_ bad--”

She gave him an incredulous look. Finally getting up, he put on his jeans and grabbed the laundry basket. She returned to the message, managing to get only the first four numbers subtracted before pausing to rub her eyes.

“Make sure you don’t dry my sweater.”

He didn’t answer. Waiting a moment, she tapped the pencil on the bed.

“It has to be laid out.”

“I know.” Not turning from the basket, he held up one of her bras by the strap as if he were afraid it or she might bite him for asking. “What about this?”

She closed her eyes. “Hang that on the rack.”

He finished emptying the hampers and left her alone in the room, letting out a quiet fart once he reached the stairs. Forcing herself to concentrate, Elizabeth turned back to the page in her lap. She was better at decoding than he was, faster at the math. It had been her favorite subject in school from the time she was a girl, her mother more than once remarking she’d gotten her Uncle Anatoli’s skill with numbers.

Finishing with the message, she tore off the page to burn and put the shortwave away. Philip’s voice carried down the hall from Paige’s room, the attempt to croon pop songs from the radio embarrassingly off-key. Folding her arms, she peeked through the door, reluctantly smiling at the sight of them in the rocking chair.

“Is she getting sleepy?”

She whispered it, bending closer to stroke the top of Paige’s head. Her hair was still wispy and fine, so little of it there was no use for the soft plastic brush with small pink flowers she’d picked up at the drugstore. Paige yawned, lips forming into a tiny pout.

“Yeah.” Philip kissed her forehead one final time and laid her gently in the crib, looking down with an adoring smile.

“She isn’t too hot, is she?” Frowning, Elizabeth bent closer to adjust the blankets. “Did you feel her tummy?”

“It’s fine.” He glanced at her. “What did the message say?”

“We’re on for tonight. They left the last two rifles in a car outside Fairfax. I’ve got the address.” Brow furrowing, she checked Paige’s stomach for herself, gently palpating through the warm cotton sleeper. Not satisfied, she shot him a look. “I’m worried.”

“I know.” Hands coming to rest lightly on her arms, he leaned over her shoulder to watch Paige drift off to sleep. “But the doctor said as long as her belly was soft and she didn’t seem sick to just wait it out.”

“It’s been _a week_ ,” Elizabeth whispered, shaking her head. “Why won’t she just . . . go?”

Clearly as weary of discussing poop as she was, Philip took a breath. “She’s _fine_.”

His hands slid along her arms, lips finding an inch of bare skin at the edge of her collar. Stomach churning, Elizabeth closed her eyes but didn’t react, silently counting back the months.

He hadn’t pushed, tensions between them slowly easing, the challenge of juggling the competing projects of Paige and spy work leaving less time to fight. Obviously horny, Philip sighed against her neck, kisses growing hot and sloppy. His fingers shook as they glided past her belt, the hitch in his breath suggesting he was picturing what she might do if he tried unbuckling it.

_It couldn’t be put off forever._

Reluctant to return to the previous state of things, Elizabeth stepped away from Paige’s crib and switched off the lamp. He followed a few steps behind as she returned to the bedroom, waited until she slid out of her sweater and began unbuttoning her dress to pull off his shirt. Wishing the room wasn’t so bright, she got into bed and opened her knees, averting her gaze before he could tell her for the hundredth time since giving birth how beautiful she looked. Voice dripping with a valiant effort at sincerity, she always heard the same thing in the compliments he’d never bothered quite so doggedly with before, that remnants of the weight still lingered at her hips, her stomach no longer as firm and flat as it had once been.

Her eyes shot open at the light tug on her ankle, the sight of him kneeling next to the bed wearing only a sly smile leaving no doubt what he intended to do. Her cheeks burst into flames, a horrible, mortifying reaction she had no trouble picturing him enjoying as a spontaneous burst of shyness. The thought humiliating her all the more, she jerked her foot back and covered her mouth, refusing either to look at him or budge.

Seconds ticking past, he finally exhaled and shook his head, climbing on top of her as he’d done every other time before. She lifted her chin and stared up at the ceiling, forcing herself not to flinch as hands began to slowly outline the bare length of her thighs.

 

* * *

 

She picked a seat next to the window, a lumpy jacket, dark sunglasses and an old ball cap of Philip’s sufficient to make sure no one would give her a second glance, admiring or otherwise. He got on at the U-Street station, discreetly peering over one shoulder like she’d once taught him before boarding. Sliding into the seat in front of her, he turned sideways to prop his arm at an angle.

“Well?” She stayed facing the window once the train started moving.

Ignoring the question, Gregory studied her face. “How you been?”

Elizabeth didn’t meet his eyes. “I get off in two stops.”

Making a casual check of the car, he got up and moved to the seat beside her. She swallowed, but didn’t react. Stretching out, he leaned closer and draped an arm across the back of her chair.

“Been almost two weeks now. Nothing so far.”

“Good.” She kept her tone neutral.

He stroked the edge of her shoulder, persisting even when she wouldn’t look at him. “Anything for you. You know that.”

Rubbing her lip, she nodded. “You can back off now. Keep your distance.”

He laughed under his breath. Frowning, she turned. Gregory stretched his neck lazily towards the opposite window, the expression that wasn’t quite a smirk nonetheless decidedly smug.

“He saw, huh?”

Elizabeth could only stare.

“You did it on _purpose_?” She hissed it, barely remembering to keep her voice down. “You think this is funny? Some sort of pissing contest? Do you have any idea the danger we’re in?”

Any hint of satisfaction faded from his face. He leaned closer, breath warming her ear. “Hey . . . Elizabeth.”

His tone was low, throaty, the way he’d once murmured her name as they lay together in bed. She set her jaw, wanting to punch him in the head. He reached around her, softly rubbing her arms. She frowned.

“Don’t.”

Whispering it without meeting his eyes, she realized her mistake when he grunted and leaned back in the seat.

“Elizabeth, what’s going on?”

She swallowed, not looking up.

Gregory shook his head. “Whatever it is, you had to come to me, not him.” The attempt to apply pressure not veiled in the least, he bumped a fist on the seat. “Just like always.”

Waiting until the announcement came on for the approaching station, she looked him straight in the eye.

“This is my stop.”

Laughing humorlessly, he slid out of the seat and allowed her to pass. She pulled her cap down, making a quick check of the compartment. Gregory’s voice was low behind her.

“He doesn’t understand you. Never has.”

Not looking back, Elizabeth stuffed both hands in her pockets and climbed off the train.

It was late by the time she got home, the house quiet. Dropping her keys and purse on the counter, she rubbed her face and went to the cabinet for the bottle of gin. Philip was in the bedroom, suitcase out on the bed. He glanced at her, continuing with his packing without a word.

She sank onto the bed to take off her boots, dropped them next to the chair.

“It’s been ten days and nothing.” Keeping her voice carefully neutral, she let her shoulders droop. “Maybe they got the message we’re not the ones they need to be worried about.”

Philip didn’t answer.

Pausing, she took a breath. “I told him to back off.”

Digging a gray sweatshirt and pants out of his closet, Philip turned to her. “Have you seen my flannel shirt?”

“It’s still in the laundry.” She looked down. “What’d Grannie say?”

“They want you to make contact with a potential agent, try to recruit him.” His tone was all business, no hint of emotion breaking through. “Sanford Prince. They had Dorwin approach him a few months ago, right when things started going south with his wife.”

Elizabeth nodded, glancing over one shoulder. “They gave you an address?”

“Yeah.” He pulled out underwear and two pairs of socks.

“Where are they sending you?”

Philip didn’t look up. “New York. Mission to discredit Bielawski.”

She set her watch on the nightstand. “The Polish opposition guy?”

“Yeah. They’re worried he’s gaining too much support in the Reagan administration. They want me there tomorrow afternoon. Use the TAA convention as cover.”

She pulled off her sweater and shook it out. “Just the one night?”

“Yeah.” Philip paused, something in his voice changing. “I’m . . . supposed to make contact with Irina . . . team up with her for this one.”

For a moment Elizabeth didn’t move. Uncertain she’d heard correctly, she blinked, struggling to form coherent thoughts through the thick fog that had plagued her since the night they’d gotten back.

“What?” Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Irina,” she stuttered, tripping over it like a foreign word, “your--”

“Yeah.”

Something raw and ugly churned deep in the pit of her stomach, her throat growing tight, breathing suddenly a task requiring concentration. She stared at the chair in the corner, unable to form words, listening to him smooth shirts and fold slacks as her chest threatened to explode.

“Why _her_?”

The question came out harsher than she’d intended, a strange viciousness tinging the end of it. Philip grunted, leaning over her to grab a book off his nightstand. She risked a look at his face and instantly regretted it, something in the absent, faraway glassiness of his eyes only infuriating her more.

“I don’t know.” Not bothering to look at her, he tossed the book on top of his clothes. “Probably because of Bielawski they want someone who can speak Polish. She has a grandmother from--”

Elizabeth shook her head, lip curling in disgust. “And it just _had_ to be her.”

“They’re orders.”

Voice having lacked for patience, now it took on a note of indifference slightly too neat, the argument she’d spent fifteen years wielding clearly bringing him private satisfaction finally to use. He shut the suitcase. Elizabeth grunted, staring blankly ahead.

“But you’re not sorry.”

The accusation hung in the air between them, all but baiting a fight. He stared back at her.

“I’m not _sorry_?” Expression incredulous, he slowly came around the bed towards her. “And what _exactly_ would _I_ be sorry for?”

She rose to meet him, feet firmly planted, hands balling into fists at her side, recognizing only when his face went blank with shock that she must’ve looked prepared to hurl him into a stack of mats. He stopped at the edge of the rug, staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. Going back to the closet, he grabbed the pillow and blanket off the top shelf. Elizabeth lifted her chin.

“You should pack your gray suit.”

He paused at the door. Voice once again steady, she met his eyes.

“She’ll love seeing you in it.”

He shook his head. Waiting until he was gone, she closed the door, the cavity in her chest hollow enough to crush her heart into a tiny ball. Squeezing into the corner of the room, she slid to the floor and curled her knees to her chest, pressing both hands over her face.

The bathroom door all but slammed out in the hallway, the sound of the hot water being yanked on coming a second later. She let her head thump against the wall, harboring no illusions what it meant when he took hot showers right before bed. Suffocating in a sudden wave of jealousy, she swallowed, afraid to question which one of them he would picture while he did it.

Her nose began to burn. She squinted her eyes shut and angrily wiped away the tear that slipped down her cheek, hating to think of the history they shared, unable to push it from her mind.

It was something she hadn’t known how much she needed. Talking about it, allowing a small deviation from orders to reveal to each other details of their Russian pasts. At first it was little things, quiet conversations holding hands in their bedroom as tentative offerings were traded back and forth, the act of doing so still foreign enough to make her nervous. His cheek close to hers, they’d edged closer each night until a second pillow became unnecessary, the quiet intimacy of it warming her with every soft brush of his breath on her cheek. And then later it was whispers exchanged as she lay, luxuriously relaxed, in his arms, cheek pillowed on the warm skin of his shoulder, the floodgates bursting as she twirled fingers through the dark, curly hair scattered over his chest and recalled all the things she missed about home.

The foods they couldn’t have . . . spicy, sour soups with cabbage and fish, fat pancakes spread with cold sour cream, too risky for her to cook even in the privacy of their own kitchen. The way the river in Smolensk looked on a clear, cold fall day, the air so crisp and clean it took her breath away, rolling fields stretching off into the horizon as the trees on its banks rose tall and proud towards the sky in a symphony of yellow and orange. She’d whispered fading recollections of Moscow in the late spring, after the slush had melted and the mud was cleared from the roads, the faint, new green budding on slender saplings washing away the desolate gray of winter.

Philip listened, just allowed her to talk. Staring into her eyes as she spoke as if all he ever wanted to do was hear the sound of her voice, he let her whisper to him the things she’d longed for years to share, the tenderness of fingers cradling hers a silent confirmation he knew how badly she’d needed someone to hear what the home they hadn’t seen in fifteen years had meant to her, him, the only person who could ever truly understand.

Not until later did she note how sparsely he’d filled in the picture of his own life, the few details offered never quite managing to illustrate the whole. She knew his name had been Mikhail. That he’d grown up with next to nothing, much like her. That he’d been selected for training at just a little older than her, a talent for languages noticed at one of the schools, the one relationship he’d had ended on its own volition before they met. Only after cold silence had descended between them did she realize she couldn’t have filled a single page with what she knew of his life before, resentment burning at the suspicion _she_ wouldn’t have said the same.

The following morning was no better. Staying upstairs until it was time to leave, Philip let her deal with the kids’ bickering and complaints over being forced to watch the news, the sight of Andrzej Bielawski arriving in New York only serving to pull the knots in her stomach tighter. Little was said on the way to school, Henry dropped off first, and then Paige, all attempts at civility falling the second the kids climbed out of the car.

She pulled into the train station and put the car in park, waiting a beat to shut off the engine. After a minute of stony silence, Philip tilted his head, not quite looking at her.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Head pounding after yet another sleepless night, Elizabeth closed her eyes. There was an insincerity to the question that couldn’t be ignored, its intended purpose not to offer concession but to suggest she might make one of her own. She swallowed, cold anger settling in her chest.

“Talk about what? The fact that our own people tortured us because they don’t trust us or that we don’t trust each other?”

Philip looked down, voice low. “I’m trying to open up about--”

_“What?”_ Turning on him, she glared. “You’re trying to _what?”_

He stared at her, forehead lined, mouth slightly open. She could barely breathe, incensed at the sight of the dark blue sweater she’d picked out for his birthday the year before, the one she’d held to his chest after the cake and wrapping paper had been cleaned up, allowing a small smile as she told him the color brought out his eyes. It hadn’t passed her notice he’d worn it practically once a week after that, smiles forming with little encouragement, corny jokes more numerous, hands finding their way to her waist whether it happened to be Saturday or not. She set her jaw, anger boiling out of control.

Exhaling in obvious annoyance, Philip shook his head. “I’ll be at the Carnegie Hotel.”

“Yeah. Have a good time.” She sneered it, not looking at him.

“It’s a mission. Not a getaway.” His voice was cold, dead. “The Centre gives orders, not explanations.”

She grunted, upper lip starting to tremble. “You’re _so_ sorry to go.”

Taking a moment to compose himself, Philip turned her way, brow furrowed. “I haven’t seen her in twenty years.”

There was something in the way he said it that turned her stomach inside out, the statement tinged with a dangerous mixture of nostalgia, longing and nervousness she felt certain he didn’t want her to notice. Closing her eyes, she drew a breath, leaning over as he climbed from the car.

“Do you have everything that you--?”

He slammed the door before she could finish, stalking into the train station without a backwards glance.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, up here, turn left.”

Snapping off the flashlight, Elizabeth folded the map and scanned to make sure their back was clear. The van lumbered onto an old dirt road, Philip slowing as the terrain got bumpy.

“There’s a good spot half a mile in, just past where the road bends.”

She nodded, checking her watch for easily the tenth time since they’d left. “We’re already behind schedule. Let’s hurry and get this done.”

He snorted, tone taking on a dry note of sarcasm. “We’ve got enough explosives in back to blow a crater twenty feet deep in the road. How fast do you _really_ want me taking the corners?”

Glaring across the front seat, she stuffed the map in the duffel bag. Philip sighed when she didn’t answer.

“She’s _fine_.”

Elizabeth frowned. “I _know_ that.” Pausing, she looked down. “I don’t like having that girl in our house. Who knows what she could be--”

“We made sure everything was secure.” He slowed again as the road curved. “And you’re the one who insisted we get a sitter. It’s not like I couldn’t have dug a hole by myself.”

Elizabeth propped an elbow on the window. “Just like you said you were going to in the backyard for my rosebushes?”

Ignoring her, he pulled the van off the road and set the brake. Reaching behind the seat for the duffel, he stuck the keys in his pocket.

“You ready?”

She pulled open the heavy side door and got a grip on one of the crate’s rope handles. Philip grabbed the other end, closing the door behind them. Grunting under the weight, she helped him lug it up the hill, pausing at the top to point over to a huge fallen tree by a small clearing.

“Right there.” Jerking her chin towards the spot, she lurched forward, the crate swaying unsteadily between them. Elizabeth smoothed a stray wisp of hair, breathing a little heavy.

“You okay?”

Frowning at him, she shook her head. “Fine. Let’s get the other two and move the van.”

It was nearly ten by the time they finished digging and got the weapons packed, owls hooting quietly over the sound of the highway in the distance.

Philip turned over one shoulder. “Can you keep the flashlight still?”

Ignoring his tone, she moved the beam back into place, watching him finish rigging explosives to the crate’s lid. She held her breath as he started to connect the final wires.

“Careful.”

He cursed and lowered his head. “You wanna do it?”

She didn’t answer, it having long been established between them he had the steadier hands. He set the detonator and closed the lid, nodding towards her to pass him the heavy plastic tarp.

“Green wire disarms it.”

They finished burying the crates in silence, scattering leaves and a fallen branch over the site once they were through. Elizabeth grabbed the shovels and started back to the van, nearly losing her balance when her boot slid on a patch of wet leaves. Philip caught her arm.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” She shook him off. “Let’s go.”

Pulling open the door, she got in back, tossed her gloves in the duffel and pulled the dirty sweatshirt over her head. Philip climbed in front while she got cleaned up, keeping watch.

“I’m starving. You wanna stop somewhere and grab a burger?”

“We should just go straight home,” she finished buttoning her blouse, “tell her we left the concert early . . .”

Trailing off, she stuffed the dirty clothes in the bag, hating the uneasy feeling that had lingered since the moment they’d pulled away from the house, Paige’s plump, clumsy arms reaching for her every time she closed her eyes. Philip studied her face in the mirror. Waiting for her to climb in front beside him, he started the van and pulled out onto the road.

“I can get changed while you run in to the store and grab the stuff we need.”

She nodded. They stopped at a Safeway thirty minutes from the city for diapers and formula. Halfway back across the parking lot, she shifted the grocery bag to one hip, frowning slightly when she caught Philip’s expression in the faint reflection from the streetlamps. Having moved over to the passenger side, he leaned across the seat to open her door, taking the bag and setting it in back.

“News report on the radio.” His voice was low. “Johnson gave a television address earlier this evening, pledged to stop the bombing raids over North Vietnam. He’s calling for peace talks.”

“Really,” she breathed, staring out the window. “You think he’s serious?”

“That’s not all.” Philip scanned the parking lot. “He announced he won’t be seeking reelection.”

She absorbed the information in silence.

“He knows they’re turning against him. Who knows what might happen now. Philip, this could be--”

“Maybe.” He shook his head. “I’ll drop a message in the park on the way in tomorrow, let them know we got the first cache buried and ask for orders.”

She started the van. “If Gabriel wants to meet, I’ll take it.”

Philip turned to stare at her in the dark. “What about Paige? You can’t seriously be thinking about bringing her al--”

“And you can’t come home and watch her for a few hours?” she shot back. “She’s your responsibility too.”

He fell silent.

“All I do is change diapers.” She exhaled. “And laundry. And put her to bed and get up again to feed her.”

Philip closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat. “And you think this has been easy on me? Running the travel agency without you there?”

She didn’t answer.

He propped an elbow on the window. “I’ll come home early tomorrow. Trade off with you.”

She shifted her grip on the steering wheel and stole a wary look at his profile. Mouth slack with exhaustion, the faint lines at his eyes were new, the stress of it clearly getting to him as much as it had her. Some of the anger dissipating, she reached behind the seat for the grocery bag.

“I got you a candy bar at the register.”

He glanced over, nose crinkling just a little. “Really?”

She tossed him the Mars bar. Tearing off the wrapper, he wolfed half of it down and chewed in silence, finally swallowing.

“We’ll get the hang of this.”

She glanced his way, but didn’t answer. Reaching over to rub her shoulder, he gave it a squeeze, their eyes meeting for half a second before she nodded and turned onto the exit ramp.

 

* * *

 

“Can we call Dad later?”

Bent over Henry’s shoulder, Elizabeth closed her eyes, the question catching her off-guard. She forced a smile when he craned to look up at her.

“He’s going to be busy with clients this evening.” Smoothing his hair, she leaned forward to tap his math book. “Probably out late. He’ll be home tomorrow.”

Nodding glumly, Henry propped an elbow on his desk and scrubbed his eraser over one of the answers she’d circled. She straightened his collar.

“Finish up and then get started on social studies. I need to run an errand and then we’re having dinner at the Beeman’s.”

“What’s for dessert?”

He turned in his chair and hooked an arm over the back, the hopeful angle of his mouth enough like Philip’s to stir a pang of longing in her gut. She looked down.

“If you promise to get all this finished by the time I get home, I’ll pick out something chocolate.”

Flashing her a grin, Henry spun around to his math, for the first time that afternoon, working at a pace that might’ve been called industrious. Elizabeth stepped next door to Paige’s room and rapped on the jamb. Paige glanced up from her composition book.

“What time are we going over?”

A pile of clothes was strewn over the bed. Brow furrowing, Elizabeth leaned against the door, the poorly concealed eagerness in her voice hitting hard in a familiar spot.

“In an hour or two after everyone’s done with homework.” She stepped back. “I have to run out for a bit. Keep an eye on your brother.”

Paige shrugged and turned to her desk.

“Fine.”

Shaking her head, Elizabeth headed downstairs. Her coat and purse were lying on the counter, a bag of Cheetos Henry had gotten out for a snack left next to his comic book. Twisting the bag closed, she snapped on a rubber band and reached up to stick it in the cabinet.

It was as her gaze came to rest on the empty space in the middle of the shelf that a sickening mixture of loneliness and longing washed over her. Lowering her head, she leaned on the counter, Philip’s face swimming before her vision, arms warm around her and lips soft at the shell of her ear, a mischievousness in his voice that never failed to draw her smile as he cuddled closer to ask if she liked the necklace.

Elizabeth lifted her chin, throat tightening, eyes starting to burn. Stung he’d dared use their relationship as a weapon to manipulate her, she’d parried hard, thrusting the box into his hand as if it was the last thing she ever wanted to keep. The look of hollow defeat in his eyes as he accepted it, haunting, the coldness that later ensued confirmed she’d not only won but succeeded in crushing any happiness he’d come to find in the idea of _them_ just as surely as he had for her.

Wiping her cheeks, she snatched her coat and the car keys. She picked a spot on the street, glaring at the sight of their handler propped like a shapeless stewed tomato on the park bench. Not caring she was almost twenty minutes late, she set her jaw and pushed open the door.

She crossed the distance in deliberate steps, taking a seat without bothering to look at her.

Claudia cut straight to the point. “You think I owe you an apology.”

Voice hard, Elizabeth didn’t flinch. “I think you owe me _more_ than an apology.”

“We had to find the mole. You know the drill.” Claudia paused as a couple walked by. “I was following orders, _dear_ , the same as you.” She fiddled with her gloves. “Nevertheless, I’m sorry.”

She brushed back a stray piece of hair and took off her glasses. Elizabeth turned to face her. Bruises darkened one temple and the opposite eye, scabbed-over cuts barely starting to heal. For the first time in weeks, something close to triumph surged strong in her veins, the unsettling blanket of vulnerability that had left her shaken since the moment she was overpowered alone in the house falling from her shoulders as she stared her straight in the eye.

“I’m sorry I didn’t kill you. That’s my apology.”

Claudia didn’t flinch. For a second, she almost smiled, the expression anything but humorous. “Better luck next time.”

Elizabeth turned away after she did, shaking her head in disgust. She was an empty shell, the warrior who’d once existed turned into a pathetic pigeon contented to preen herself and carry messages back and forth, tending the seeds of doubt that had caused the Centre to question their loyalty.

Claudia slid her glasses on, an arrogant lift to her chin making her all the more laughable. “I’d hate to see you throw yourself in front of a train, Nadezhda. Bad things happen not only in literature.”

Elizabeth grunted, not missing the way she couldn’t even pronounce her name any more, the syllables tripping like a cheap lesson in foreign language by cassette tape off her clumsy, spoiled tongue.

“Is that a threat?”

“Only if you’re serious about killing me, Nadezhda.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“It upsets you?”

The answer came a touch too quickly, the grasping attempt to find an angle to manipulate pitifully amateur. Elizabeth looked down, finding it incomprehensible that she’d ever been trusted with such a critical assignment at all.

“It confuses me.” She said it emotionlessly, turning to face her. “I like to keep my wits when I’m handling snakes.”

Claudia laughed outright, looking more like an old, deflated sack than ever. She pushed her sunglasses higher up her nose. “Very well, Elizabeth.”

Extricating herself from any further attempts at theatre, she stalked away from the bench the second their business was through, managing to keep her anger in check until she reached the car. Once inside she gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn her knuckles white, now certain she was the one who’d authorized the pictures.

She’d made Philip take the kids out of the house the following day, torn it apart bottom to top searching for cameras and sweeping for bugs, knowing she wouldn’t find anything, that someone had already been sent to remove them. Some of the photographs had been ripped from the albums they kept, others snapped at a distance, the ones taken in their living room while Paige and Henry sat watching TV making her skin crawl.

She held no illusions the Centre could keep them under constant surveillance, the risk their cover could just as quickly be blown by such measures a costly gamble even before an FBI agent had moved in across the street. It was enough to know they were being monitored from a distance, that even if it wasn’t that day or that week, they would never know a moment’s peace, forced to comb the house in a paranoid frenzy every time they left it or live with the constant fear they were being watched. They wouldn’t be able to smile or laugh at breakfast without their motives falling under suspicion, unable to let their guard down even when they crawled under the covers to sleep at night.

_Watched like traitors after everything they’d done._

She hadn’t flinched the day she swore to give it all up, to leave Russia and come to the United States, eat their food and deny herself even a taste of the _ukha_ and _oladushki_ she’d so missed. Instead she walked their streets and ate their greasy cheeseburgers and fries, having banal conversations with the flighty women in Paige’s playgroup by day and sucking foul-tasting dicks by night, to whisper her own name even in the privacy of her bedroom an act of heresy. She’d played married to a man who was a stranger, lying with her legs apart while he impregnated her with one child, and then a second. Promising to raise them to be perfect, damned capitalists in a soulless place, she was forbidden from sharing with them anything she held dear, the cause in whose service she’d sacrificed every last freedom the very thing they were taught in school to revile.

She’d followed orders, sworn to Gregory they’d never matter to her, that they wouldn’t change the lengths she was willing to go to, a promise easier to believe when Paige had been an annoying kick in her bladder, a parasite of Philip’s she was forced to bear in her ugly, distended stomach rather than the soft, chubby baby who smelled of milk and talcum powder or the toddler whose back she’d lovingly rubbed at naptime, the little girl who’d perched on a stool alongside her in the kitchen making cookies out of Play-Doh or the thirteen-year-old who’d pulled her aside, cheeks pink and eyes down to tell her she’d started her period.

And then once despite everything she grew to fiercely love the children who were only ever supposed to complete the ruse, they’d been turned into a weapon to be used against her. Their pictures were callously papered across her cell in nothing short of a taunt, a silent reminder they could be ripped away at any time and used as pawns to extract whatever the Centre wanted from her and Philip. As if that had been their plan all along.

Seething, Elizabeth started the car, no longer harboring any doubt who had carefully manipulated the pieces into place. Who’d set them up to take the fall for the leaked encryption codes, envious of the success she’d never known and corrupted by power, ideals easily abandoned in the name of personal greed. Zhukov would’ve never authorized such a thing, would be livid when he learned of it. Someone higher up had been swayed, Claudia’s efforts to force them under her thick, pasty thumb casting doubt despite their decade and a half of faithful service. Less of a threat apart, she’d pitted them against one another, sending Philip to New York in the aftermath just to goad her.

_Philip._

Elizabeth shook her head, barely seeing the snowy road in front of her.

Philip, who she’d been convinced they couldn’t trust. Who’d enjoyed the comforts of their assignment too much, quick to rush out and purchase himself a pair of American blue jeans, ordering a Coca-Cola and an extra side of fries whenever they stopped in a restaurant for lunch like he’d just stepped out of a commercial for their soft, spoiled decadence. Philip, who hadn’t hesitated to back her up when she’d shoved Claudia’s head underwater and beat her bloody, their partnership having long surpassed the need to agree or even understand, an allegiance deeper than any oath could’ve bound them unquestionably proven.

Philip, who she’d reported on, sending messages through Gabriel warning he was getting in too deep. That jokes had begun straying too close to the mark, the casual challenging of orders becoming harder to ignore. Coupled with a suspicious fondness for cheap beer and Sunday evening cookouts in their backyard, even at home he’d begun to look and act like one of them. Philip, who hadn’t flinched under torture, refusing to give them anything, whose only breaking point had come months before in the moment he believed their family to be in danger. Not at the threat of pain nor the promise of having his head held underwater until he convulsed and vomited, nothing mattering to him but her, Henry and Paige.

Pulling into the parking lot, Elizabeth shut off the engine and closed her eyes.

_You get nothing from us. She’s trained for this. So am I._

He hadn’t tried to talk about it and hadn’t needed to. Jerking awake beside her at night, breathing tight and panicked, she knew it was the bucket he was remembering, their days in training not distant enough to forget the sensation of being held down while water filled her throat and nose, struggling in vain as she was methodically drowned by one of their instructors.

The pain agonizing, it was the sheer terror of it that followed her for weeks after, of being forced down, the knowledge it was only a drill ceasing to matter after the first seconds when panic set in. Her hands and feet tied, they pushed her under so many times she lost count, stars appearing before her eyes as her body went weak, hope leaving her, limbs ceasing to obey. Only then did they pull her up, allowing her to suck gasping breaths long enough for sufficient clarity to return that she might recognize what was coming, to have her head forced down again just after she exhaled in the hopes she would draw a cruel first mouthful of water.

Rubbing her face, Elizabeth leaned back in the seat, haunted by the pain in his eyes. Philip, who she’d come to depend on in a way she could no one else, secure in the knowledge there was no force, no person, no thing and no ideal he held dearer than their family. That he wouldn’t hesitate to defend them with every last ounce of strength in his body, and at any cost to himself.

Philip, who she’d stopped reporting on, even before Timoshev, reluctantly acknowledging that somewhere along the way, and despite her best intentions, things had gotten personal. It was the last thing she would’ve called love, what she felt for him more often outright annoyance. But he was the one who anchored Paige’s other hand as she gleefully hopped over puddles in bright, rubber boots on rainy days, the one who Henry cuddled up to at night, pushing their worn, red book of bedtime stories into his lap and listening in rapt wonder until his eyelids drooped. The one who could read her in the field without needing words, who went out at midnight when it was snowing to find an open drugstore that would have aspirin for her cramps, and who never failed to remember she liked her hotdogs burned and her beer extra cold.

Philip, who without even flinching, she’d begun to lie for. First to Zhukov and later in mission reports, a string of omissions and skirted truths leaving her ashamed to stand alongside the person she’d once been, terrified of the one she’d become. That it meant something to her that he would defy orders on her behalf. That she’d come to count on it.

They’d sworn to choose country above self, the good of them all before the needs of one. And yet some tiny, selfish part of her clung tight to the knowledge that to him, _she_ always came first, that there was nothing he wouldn’t have done for her. That the loyalty they felt to each other could equal that to their country, Nadezhda, who’d accepted orders to live the false life of Elizabeth Jennings, who’d stood before Zhukov and promised she’d die before failing her mission, staring him straight in the eye as she quietly passed along lies.

 

* * *

 

It hadn’t taken long to learn to close doors quietly or risk the wrath of a woken baby. Slipping into the house, Elizabeth set her keys on the table and took off her shoes, catching sight of Philip out in the backyard with the grill. Frowning upon noticing a laundry basket lined with pastel blankets propped beside him on a lawn chair, she hurried over to the door.

He turned from the grill when she came out onto the patio, not missing the expression on her face.

“She’s fine.”

Giving him a dark look, Elizabeth picked up Paige and began bouncing her. “You put her in the _laundry basket_?” she demanded, voice practically a hiss. “What the hell were you--?”

“We had a little _incident_ upstairs.” He shook his head, voice weary. “I had to open all the windows to air the place out and couldn’t leave her in her crib alone.”

She breathed in, suddenly understanding. “She pooped?”

Grunting, he rubbed his face and leaned against the patio table. “ _While_ I was in the middle of changing her. It was a little like taking artillery fire.”

He folded his arms, rolling his eyes when her cheek twitched.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, cheeks hurting from the effort not to smile.

Philip laughed quietly and straightened up. “Yeah, well.” He stuck three hot dogs on the grill and closed the lid. “So how’d it go?”

“Fine.” Pausing for a moment, she pushed her hair back. “You want a beer?”

His eyes flicked to hers. “Sure.”

Giving him a pointed look, she carefully laid Paige in the laundry basket and smoothed her jumper, going to the refrigerator for two bottles. Returning, she edged through the door and pulled it closed.

“Have you seen the opener?”

Philip didn’t turn from the hotdogs. “Maybe you left it in the refrigerator next to the Cheerios.”

Laughing indignantly, she finally smiled. “That was _you_.”

He turned and winked at her, setting the grilling fork aside. “Sure it was.” He put his hand out for the beer.

Shaking her head, she passed him one. “ _Don’t_.”

“What?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You know what.”

He grinned and went over to the fence railing to knock the cap off. Trading with her, he opened the second one and took a long swallow, leaning against the table.

“Gabriel have any orders for us?”

Elizabeth sipped her beer and nodded. “Staffer at the defense department they think we can work. Drinking problem. Spends a lot of time at one of the bars over in Georgetown.”

Philip didn’t say anything for a minute, finally leaning over to flip the hotdogs. “You ready for that?”

“Actually, with this one they . . . seemed think _you_ might have better luck.” Shrugging, she rotated the bottle in her hands.

He made a face, not missing her meaning. Taking two of the hotdogs off the grill, he stuck them in buns and closed the lid. Elizabeth reached down to stroke Paige’s arm and glanced around the backyard, noting the freshly dug line of holes along the fence. Staring at his back for a moment, she looked down when he turned her way.

“Things go any better at work today?”

He wrinkled his nose, coming over to plop down in the chair next to Paige. “They’re all right. It’s been a little harder keeping up with things without you there.” Pausing, he took another drink and met her eyes. “We’ll figure it out, find a way to balance everything.”

She nodded silently, squinting at the darkening sky as he rose to get her hotdog off the grill.

“We should start going through the house room by room on the weekends, put in soundproofing, upgrade the equipment locker in the basement.”

“Sure.” Passing her a hotdog that was practically charcoal, he grabbed his plate and sank into the next chair. “The other morning when I went out to get the paper I started talking to Chuck from across the street.” Wolfing down a bite, he raised an eyebrow. “Did you know he and Marci are putting in a wine cellar?”

“A _wine cellar_?” Making a sound under her breath, she squirted on mustard.

Philip shrugged, still chewing. “Yeah, I know.” Not saying anything for a moment, he swallowed and rotated the beer bottle in one hand, tone thoughtful when he finally spoke. “You know, for us it _could_ have other uses.”

Shaking her head at what she feared was only half a joke, she shot him a look and picked up her hotdog, relieved when he resumed eating and allowed the matter to drop.

 

* * *

 

The evening crawled by at an excruciating pace. The kids in bed, Elizabeth straightened the living room and made a quick check of the bookshelves, rinsing out a sponge to give the kitchen counter the thorough scrubbing it had needed for weeks. No less shaky by the time she was done, she pulled the last load of laundry from the dryer and snapped off the lights downstairs.

Their bedroom was empty, quiet, the house having never seemed more still. Reaching into the basket for one of Philip’s shirts, she shook it out and smoothed the tag, an ache forming in her chest at the scent of his cologne drifting up from the fabric. Sinking onto the bed, she closed her eyes, pressed her nose to the collar and inhaled, some part of her still finding it incomprehensible how much she’d come in just a short time to miss the feeling of his lips on her skin, to fall asleep under the comforting weight of his arm, breath even and warm on the back of her neck. Lowering the shirt, she stared at it.

It had been different with Gregory. Their time together brief, but enough, it was a fleeting chance to relish the spark that had been ignited and reaffirm a shared commitment to the struggle. His ideals in lockstep with hers, they fed off each other’s passion, a lingering reminder that no matter how incessantly she and Philip might’ve fought or how slippery his grasp of loyalty, in him she had an ally. No more aware of what went on in her daily life than she could’ve guessed how he occupied himself when she was gone, she hadn’t needed him to understand the act she put on as Elizabeth Jennings, only to take her away from the thankless monotony of raising a family that would never completely feel like hers, of pretending to care about travel arrangements or what kind of cookies to bake for Paige’s preschool class as the world circled in a slow, decadent spiral towards hell.

The pressure was there from early on, the casual suggestion she should leave sounding less like a joke every time he repeated it. That they should run off together, just the two of them, pushing her towards a place he knew she couldn’t even consider, that she’d told him countless times would mean giving up everything she’d been sent there to do. She skirted his inquiries about the state of things at home, ignored attempts to poke around her feelings about Philip while reminding him it was only for her cover, their time together increasingly strained as the hints grew less veiled. Her sole form of escape, she’d wanted only to close her eyes for the few hours they could spare and return to the girl who’d known what she wanted, who hadn’t been confused or mired in nagging complications. To feel invigorated as she had the first time they’d met, impassioned for the cause and reveling in the one private thing she’d ever taken for herself.

He made the move back to D.C. the summer Henry was two, rubbed her shoulders while dropping in the suggestion she’d be able to see him more. Not saying anything in response, she nodded silently, the pit forming in her stomach acknowledging years before she was ready to face it head on that things between them had already begun to change.

Life began to creep in, worries over a project Paige had to finish or Henry’s constant battle with earaches making it harder to find the time to escape. Wary at the knowledge Philip would be incensed if he found out, she grew further cautious, unwilling to risk disrupting a partnership that had come to operate as fluidly as breathing, their results in the field unmatched by any other team on the East Coast. Her visits growing less frequent every year, it was easier not to talk about it, not to think about it, to push it out of her mind and try desperately to reclaim the feeling they used to share, what had once felt so right slowly fading away.

She’d missed him on occasion, thought fondly of the time they spent together. But after the first few years it no longer felt hard to go, to make the shift back to her regular life until the time came for them to be together again. Never like something had been ripped from her chest leaving her wounded. Miserable. Unable to concentrate. The tension so unbearable she could’ve cried for a week and found no relief. Never had she imagined herself capable of missing someone in that way, nothing right, everything she did moving through the day affected by a sore ache.

Not until much later could she admit it no longer felt the same when she looked into his eyes. That she didn’t want to pretend for another day or week that Paige and Henry meant nothing to her. That Elizabeth Jennings, the illusion she’d long despised, was the only mother they knew, her arms the ones they sought after skinned knees and nightmares, her neck the one that received soft, sleepy whispers as she gently rocked them to sleep. That nothing could ever feel real as long as they were objects she could abandon, what had once been a return to her deepest truth nothing but burying her head in a comfortable lie.

With every step they drifted further apart she found herself drawn to what had once seemed impossibly wrong, the man she’d been convinced she couldn’t care for the only one who lived with the same guilt, bore the same fears for their children, saw her at her best and her worst and still looked at her the same way over breakfast every morning, as quietly devoted to the girl he’d barely known as the woman she’d become. Somehow always understanding even when she couldn’t find the words. Her partner in the most primal sense of the word. The only one with whom she felt whole.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. She’d stood before the party committee at seventeen and pledged to give it all up. Home. Family. Any sense of autonomy over her body. The weak, sentimental fantasy of standing before a man out of desire, much less love. She’d trusted no one on their say so, keeping friend and foe alike at arm’s length, refusing any touch of softness or comfort that could weaken the soldier they were sending to fight behind enemy lines.

Dropping Philip’s shirt in the laundry basket, she wiped her cheeks and crawled over to his side of the bed. They’d made love nowhere else since coming home from the hotel. On hers they cuddled, held hands, fingers and arms intertwining as he spooned her and teasingly tried to steal her socks, warm kisses pressed to her bare neck and shoulders a silent invitation to see if she wanted to come to him. Wrapping both arms around his pillow, she inhaled the faint, salty scent of his hair.

Pushing off the bed, Elizabeth slipped into her nightgown, stomach miserably knotted. Unable to keep from staring at the phone on the nightstand, after a long moment she reached over to get it, curling into a ball as she fingered the receiver. Drawing the most difficult breath of her life, she closed her eyes and picked it up.

The unseen weight that for days had smashed her chest dissolving once it began to ring, she sank into the pillows and stared up at the ceiling, the truth solidifying in her heart with frightening clarity. What the idea of _them_ had come to mean to her. What she wanted it to be.

_To finally give herself, fully. Hiding nothing and holding nothing back._

“Hello?” His voice was rough, gravelly.

She swallowed, steadying herself. “Oh . . . did I wake you?”

There was a pause, then muffled noises in the background. He cleared his throat, the answer clumsy from sleep. “Are . . . are the kids okay?”

The question loosened something in her gut, how many times they’d whispered it back and forth coming in late from dead drops and meets, the family they’d created together the one thing that had always united them. Starting to breathe again, Elizabeth tucked an arm under her pillow.

“Yeah, yeah, no, they’re, everyone’s fine. We had dinner at the Beeman’s. Stan never showed up. I . . . I think they’re having some problems, you know, some personal problems.”

He didn’t say anything. Closing her eyes, she charged ahead before she could lose the nerve.

“I’ve been . . . I’ve been thinking about you.” She twisted the phone cord around one finger, the truth leaving her utterly naked. “About us. I miss you.”

The hardest thing she’d ever had to say, it was met by nothing but static, the receiver cold and dispassionate under her ear. Forcing back the lump in her throat, she took a breath, courage momentarily wavering.

“Are you there?”

She heard him breathing, as if in the moment before, he’d stopped. The answer was tight, voice so strained it barely sounded like him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m still here.”

Elizabeth swallowed, tears forming in her eyes. She forced the tension from her chest, almost whispering it.

“Come home.”

Through the static, she heard him sigh, a second of brief shuffling in the background his only response before the line went dead.

 

 

 

 


	7. Duty and Honor

From the first time he saw it, _Philip Jennings_ seemed like a good name. Seated at a table in a small, dimly lit room with the dossier open in front of him, he mouthed it under his breath a couple of times, carefully refining stress and pronunciation until he dared give it a slow test aloud.

Not exactly the surname he imagined the Centre would’ve chosen had they not been limited to a handful of stolen identities where the ages were a close enough match, the ‘je’ at the beginning was a potential stumbling block even before the cumbersome grouping of consonants at its end, the thought of reciting it in front of a Customs agent while armed guards waited by the door enough to make him lean forward in the rickety metal chair to frown at the page more closely. _Phil-ip Jenn-ings_. Struggling to position his tongue for the nasal tones in the final syllable, he was struck by the sudden hunch encumbering him with such a hurdle might’ve been the Centre’s final test, choosing the last thing anyone who knew what to look for would suspect, a shibboleth the FBI experts would be convinced no imposter could manage.

A strong, likeable name, it was unquestionably American, a twinge of pride at the mission he’d been chosen over all the others to take on quick to follow each time it rolled off his tongue. _Philip Jennings_. The background information was to be memorized within the week. Half a dozen pages long, it was all there. A list of places he’d lived growing up, various cities in the northeastern part of the country, none of them small enough that his absence from local memory would be conspicuous or far enough to the north or south for someone to question his accent. Typical weather patterns. Particular foods for which he’d be expected to have developed a preference. The unfortunate set of circumstances that had rendered him lacking any relatives, all the particulars smoothly accounted for with no detail overlooked.

Their birthdates six months apart, in all other ways it was as if the Centre intended to rewrite Philip Jennings from scratch, never straying close enough to the truth that something might be inadvertently revealed in recounting the two decades he’d never really spent there, or so easy to relax into that he might make a careless mistake. He leafed through the dossier slowly, as impressed by the history someone had painstakingly fabricated as he was fascinated to absorb every nuance of the identity he was to assume. To glean from Philip Jennings’ upbringing how such a man would act, speak and carry himself, details critical to granting their cover an authenticity no one would question.

A series of briefings had covered what was to come next. He would cease going by _Mikhail_ entirely, referred to only by his American alias for the rest of training, total immersion in English to continue until he and his partner were sent overseas as a married couple to start their assignment. The woman he was to be paired with had already been selected by Colonel Zhukov, their first meeting arranged for the following week. The hint of a twinkle in the old man’s eye piquing his curiosity, the silent hope she would be pretty had more than once crossed his mind, a sea of faces, figures, and dark, expressive eyes swimming before his vision as he stared into an empty vodka glass well after he should’ve been in his bunk.

Not long after their arrival in the United States, Philip became _Phil_. He shortened it because they did, blending in as easily waiting for a haircut and shave at the barber shop downtown as he did standing around with the neighbors in sandals and shorts at backyard barbeques. Visibly struggling to feign interest in the group of women on the other side of the yard, Elizabeth could barely keep the silent daggers from her eyes when he was invited over for beers after work or to catch a game on the weekends, Phil, the guy who had nothing more complicated to worry about than the Capitals’ recent losing streak and whether he’d remembered to pick up ice and hamburger buns at the corner store like his wife had instructed, _Phil_ , the guy everybody liked.

She was the only one who declined ever to use the nickname, something in the neat refusal to let her guard down long enough to drop even a single syllable so perfectly, unquestionably _Elizabeth_ that in better times it couldn’t help but tug an affectionate crease at the corner of his mouth. He’d teased her for it once while they were cleaning the kitchen after dinner, hiding a grin and passing over a wineglass to dry while making the suggestion she could always go by _Lizzy_. The look he received in response leaving little doubt what she thought of his sense of humor, a cool lift of her chin invited neither further probing nor debate. Smiling, he stole a covert glance at her profile when she reached into the drawer for a towel, having long since fallen hard for the partner they’d assigned him, fading memories of what had come before her a pale imitation of the blazing intensity with which she’d seared herself into his heart.

Only a few years after Phil had come _Daddy_. The two irrevocably linked, there was a strange, shaky warmth that flooded his chest the first time Paige managed to babble it from the safe cocoon of Elizabeth’s arms, face lighting up the second he walked through the kitchen door after work. The sole name he’d earned rather than been given, it was the only one that couldn’t be rescinded, Paige having neatly wrapped them both around one impossibly tiny finger from the moment she’d yawned in her fuzzy, pink blanket in the hospital room. Laying her cheek against his shoulder as he rocked her to sleep at night, she clutched a small, trusting fist in the fabric of his shirt, understanding even at a year old that _Daddy_ was one of the two people on earth who would’ve died before letting any harm come to her.

He’d gone by countless others over the years. The second persona coming effortlessly as the first, it was natural as breathing, almost too easy to do. By the time he and Elizabeth began sleeping together he’d assumed half a dozen temporary aliases, a locker of wigs and tinted contact lenses that made his eyes itch merely accentuating the shift that had already taken place. In their skin, he didn’t hesitate, pushed aside any sense of self, and with it confliction. Leaning close enough to pick up a hint of his target’s perfume just before he allowed a smile, he didn’t so much suppress as simply sidestep contradictory feelings, making his voice low or rough as they desired, gradually drawing them in, the fingernails that later raked down his back in whatever motel room was closest unable even to scratch the surface, so completely someone else in that moment he could almost believe the act himself.

They were all discarded once his work in them was done, disposable as the code sheets they burned and evidence they buried after the mission reports were filed with the Centre. And each time there was the same sense of comfortable familiarity . . . almost _relief_ to return to the one identity that had come to fit like a glove, a second skin he’d worn for so long it was hard to remember the part of his life that had come before he’d been the man who spent hot August afternoons digging holes in the backyard for Elizabeth’s rosebushes or the father who carried home two bright orange plastic pumpkin buckets, and often Henry, when he and Paige got tired of trick-or-treating, stretching out on the living room floor the next day to watch them gleefully sort through their candy. Before he’d been the one Paige pleaded with to locate and kill all spiders that snuck into the house, the one who checked Henry’s math homework and ensured his teeth were brushed, and who made sure to salt their driveway and stock up on firewood when the weather turned cold, never forgetting the bag of marshmallows the four Jennings would roast together on quiet evenings when it started to snow.

And as he stared at the symphony of flickering light and shadow dancing across Elizabeth’s cheeks, he would sometimes catch a tiny smile, the effort worth it a thousand times over for that one stolen glimpse of the girl whose name he’d never been allowed to ask, the one locked away somewhere inside the tough exterior of the KGB agent, masked by a voice hard as weathered concrete and eyes that lingered miles away. It had never been easy for them, _complicated_ a word that couldn’t quite do justice to a marriage purposefully arranged that it might help them navigate a world of lies, of deceptions murmured to everyone but each other, even the quiet, sincerest whispers of love offered to Henry and Paige before tucking them in at night carefully twisted around a false accounting of where they’d been. The act all but routine after fifteen years, it fell only in the moments they were alone, faces showing the weariness and frustration they’d kept carefully hidden from the rest of the world as he pulled a bottle of vodka from the nightstand and poured each of them a shot, clinking the glass of the woman with whom he’d shared a bed for fifteen years, raised two children and built a life so authentic they were the envy of the neighbors, all without ever knowing her true name.

Fingers laced intimately in his the night she’d whispered it in Russian for the first time, he could see from the softness in her eyes what it meant to her to say it, the small dip in her chin marking the offering every bit as personal as crawling across the front seat of the Oldsmobile to kiss him full on the mouth. He’d given her his in return, watched the curious twitch in her lip as she slowly nodded, waiting a minute while stroking his thumb before shyly remarking it wasn’t what she’d guessed. Toying with her fingers, he merely smiled, teasingly asking if she’d pegged him as a _Boris_ and drinking in the remarkable, unprecedented lightness of her voice when she giggled and studied their linked hands, unwilling to risk spoiling the moment by admitting when he looked into her eyes, watched Henry and Paige curl up on the couch between them with a bowl of popcorn in front of an evening television special, it sometimes no longer seemed to matter that his name had ever been _Mikhail_ at all.

The Sunday morning they were taken was no less ordinary than any other. He waited to relay the update from the Centre until after the breakfast dishes were cleared, knowing it would only make her worry, holding no illusions the measures they’d be forced to take in order to flush out a mole in the Rezidentura. Face paling as she took in the news, Elizabeth stared out the kitchen window at a loss for words, the vein in her forehead rising when Paige came in for the third time to remind her in increasingly impatient tones they were ready to leave for the mall. Nodding in silent agreement he should press Martha, Elizabeth leaned up to give him one final, lingering kiss, the lovely pale gray of her eyes in the early morning sun something that would come to haunt him in the hours to come.

Moved to locations unknown hooded and bound in the back of a van, he gave nothing up when they yanked off the wig. Not when they pummeled his ribs with the dull weight of a phone book and not even after the tapes were played, his only thought of stalling for precious hours and minutes on the chance Elizabeth might’ve evaded them, had somehow made it to the kids and needed time to get them out of town until she could safely contact the Rezidentura. Heart dropping through his chest like lead as he watched her dragged into the room, lacerations marking her cheek, a flicker of her eyes to his confirmed what they both already knew. That there would be no trades and no deals, the lives they’d led as Philip and Elizabeth Jennings over, the last conversation they would ever get to have with Henry and Paige spent arguing over taking coats to the mall in case it started to snow.

Not allowing himself to picture their faces from that point forward, he stared at a crack in the floor and forced his mind to go blank, shrugging free of his skin and becoming no one. No one who felt pain or feared for loved ones, nor who clung to any hope of survival. As the future faded into a black expanse of nothingness so would fear, the emotions they sought to access pushed from his body in favor of the empty, numbing blanket of apathy. He didn’t react when they held his head underwater, nor during the vicious beating that followed, staring straight ahead without uttering a sound when they left him tied to a chair with only a single guard left to stand watch, refusing to think of what was being done to Elizabeth in the other room.

Bursting out onto the street together to find day had turned to night, everything flooded him in a rush. Anger. Fear. Fury and a sense of relief so sickening it nearly choked him. And almost immediately, desperate concern for _her_ , the fear that one of the guards might’ve seen an opportunity while they were overpowered hovering in the back of his mind, her rage in nearly killing Claudia ringing with a dangerously familiar note. Heartbeat dropping to a pace he could once again breathe at her quick reassurance she hadn’t even been questioned, the reprieve was short-lived, understanding creeping in as he stared at the rigid angle of her shoulders, suspicions forming even as he didn’t want to so much as consider the unthinkable.

_If I said anything that made them think . . . if I said anything that would . . . it would’ve been so long ago--_

Rendering fifteen years together and every memory they shared inconsequential, worst of all was the knowledge she’d sent back the reports harboring no illusion what their outcome would be. That he would disappear one night when none of them expected it, Paige and Henry told he’d run off, never able to so much as ask the father they’d never see again what they’d done to make him abandon them. Their faces frozen in what remained of his mind every time the dull exterior of nothingness was cracked by an interrogator on the other side of the world, his existence would be reduced to a haze of drugs, graduated physical maiming and sleep deprivation, the torture unrelenting until someone in Moscow finally signed the order to take his life.

Gutted by it, the revelation was incomprehensible to bear, much less linger in, a partnership built on deepest trust, one forged in the trenches of planting bombs and burying munitions, of washing vomit-soiled sheets at three in the morning and sitting through Henry’s stuttering performance as an ear of corn in the school’s Thanksgiving pageant, stunningly betrayed. He was left to stare up at the living room ceiling at night, too sick to sleep, tormented by the pale gray of eyes that had held him captive from the moment they warily looked each other over in a stiff, formal office thousands of miles away, unable to conceive there would ever be a need to escape being _Philip Jennings_. That he would one day wake up and discover the truth that had grounded him was nothing but a lie.

 

* * *

 

The day of their first meeting was warm for Moscow in April, the sun hot on his back through a wool suit jacket and vest as he passed through Dzerzhinsky Square to the yellow brick building that housed KGB headquarters. He was stopped at the front entrance, left to glance over the intimidating stonework surrounding the door while the guard checked his papers. No less nervous once seated in the waiting area outside Zhukov’s office, he dried his palms on the leg of his pants and stared at the closed door at the far end of the room. Taking a deep breath, he reached into his pocket.

He no longer took out the photograph once a day, or even once a week, its presence serving mainly to mark a book he kept in the locker at the head of his bunk. And yet after two years, he still hadn’t been able to bring himself to throw it away. The one girlfriend he’d had before entering the Academy, to look into the solemn brown of her eyes brought everything back, for good and for bad. The sound of her voice and taste of her lips. The anticipation that filled his chest as he rounded the block and caught sight of her apartment building in the distance, imagining the smile that would light her face the second she answered the door. And as always, it was followed by the dull, hollowing sense of loss that had come the last time they saw each other, the day she’d asked him to meet her in the park, held his hand and averted her eyes while telling him she was ending things between them, that he was going away and she’d met someone else.

Jaw suddenly tight, he flinched when a door opened at the end of the hall, turning to stare at her picture for the last time. It was the only thing to do, something he’d put off far too long, to keep it in secret utterly unfair to the woman waiting in the next room. Swallowing, he ripped the photograph in half and tossed it in the waste bin, the breath he drew in the aftermath unexpectedly lighter. He wiped his palms a final time and stood, turning to face Zhukov.

“Colonel.”

Hands clasped behind his back, Zhukov studied him for a long moment, a smile hovering at his lips.

“Come.”

Heart pumping faster, he followed the colonel down a narrow corridor to the office next door. His gaze flicked briefly to the strange collection of art on the walls, a large map of the Motherland on proud display behind his desk. It stopped on the woman standing at the window. Back to him, she was of average height, hair a light shade of brown, heels and a snug skirt showing off a figure far better than he’d hoped for.

“Philip, I’d like you to meet Elizabeth.”

She turned at the sound of Zhukov’s voice, fingers twisting nervously in front of her. Not only attractive, but strikingly pretty, large, expressive eyes drew his attention immediately, the point of her chin delicate and small. He quietly exhaled, not having realized he was holding his breath.

The colonel paused and gestured to him. “Elizabeth, this is Philip.”

Nodding once, he started forward, anticipation and, for the first time, a bit of excitement pumping in his veins.

“Pleased to meet you.” Angling her head sharply, Elizabeth took two precise steps and stopped with her toes matched up on the carpet, something in her posture indicating he wasn’t to come any closer.

Halting with one arm halfway extended, he straightened and clasped his hands. “Likewise.”

Clearly accustomed to the awkwardness of such introductions, Zhukov continued unperturbed. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. There is much to be discussed . . .”

Barely hearing the rest of what was said, he found himself in the unexpected quandary of trying to get the best look possible at the woman he was to marry without being caught. Eyes locked intently on Zhukov, she gave a faint nod at each instruction, soft blinks every few seconds the only thing keeping her from appearing like a statue. Turning to him once the colonel paused, she was close enough he could see her eyes had a faint hint of green, the doubt in them far harder to hide.

They sat on instruction, Zhukov exiting the room. He wiped his palms again, an uncomfortable span of seconds passed by trading off who stared while the other studied the ground. Finally he gestured to the ornate pitcher on the table.

“Would you like some tea?” The question came out closer to a croak. Fingers clumsy, he reached for the metal handle.

“Yes, thank you.”

The conversation as stilted and formal as those in the English textbook from which they’d both undoubtedly been trained, she kept her hands tightly clasped by one knee. He poured the tea. Carefully rotating her glass so their fingers wouldn’t have to touch, he offered it across the table and picked up his own.

They took a sip in unison. Swallowing, he set his glass down, noting she was still fingering hers. A set of plates and silverware had been put out for them, _zakuski_ spread over the far end of the table. Not sure he wanted to fumble with the serving dish of salted cucumbers or risk leaving bread crumbs scattered over Zhukov’s carpet, he glanced up at her instead.

“I understand you are from Chicago?”

He caught the nervous twitch in her cheek, lips quickly returning to an unwavering frown. Looking at him warily, she gave a quick, formal nod.

“Yes, that is right. And you?”

“Canton.” He noted her reaction as he said it, trying to gauge if she was familiar with the town. “In Ohio.”

Elizabeth fingered her glass. “And is your family still living there?”

“No.” He’d practiced in front of the mirror, the act of reciting the fake history to her when both of them knew it was a lie more than a little strange. “My father died when I was six, my mother, last year.” Pausing, he let his eyes drift to the thin line of her lips. “And yours?”

“They are gone. A car accident.”

Her pronunciation noticeably less consistent than his, he nodded silently when she turned to stare at him, wondering if it was always that way, or just due to nerves. It took almost half an hour to fumble through an awkward rehearsal of their backstories, Elizabeth more than once angling a glance towards her wristwatch while he talked. Finishing with the final details of where they’d gone to school, he looked down at his hands, having already twice stalled for time by refilling their tea, what had seemed in the moment a useful distraction leaving him in desperate need of the john.

“Do you want any,” he gestured at the food, clearing his throat to cover the pause while he came up with the right word, “appetizers?”

“No, thank you.”

Her voice was soft, subdued. Waiting until she turned, he studied her face, finding it hard to picture they were one day going to live together, work as partners. That they would complete three more years of training before being sent to the U.S. to develop sources and send back intelligence. That she was the woman who would have his children. Act as his wife.

He tugged at his collar, jacket growing warm in the stuffy room. Her fingers were still knotted in her lap, knees not having budged an inch from where she’d tucked them under her skirt. Catching her immediate frown when his eyes strayed in that direction, he cleared his throat and forced them away, unable to shake the feeling of disconcertion at having talked for half an hour without being able to name a single thing about her that hadn’t been dictated by one of their superiors in a dossier.

“It’s hot today.” He nodded towards the table in the corner. “Would you like me to switch on the fan?”

She frowned and shook her head, the slight glow of perspiration on her forehead marking the answer as a lie. He lowered his head, trying again.

“Are you staying--?”

Footsteps sounded in the outer room. Both of them quickly rising from the couch when Zhukov entered, out of the corner of his eye he saw her posture straighten, expression softening, the same admiration and almost _reverence_ that had been there before written plainly on her face as she stared at the colonel. Zhukov offered a brief smile, gesturing towards the door.

“We will meet again next week. At the same time.”

They nodded. Stepping back, Philip extended a hand to allow Elizabeth to pass first, vaguely noting as he followed her from the room that he hadn’t once seen her smile.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, buddy, six bucks.”

Philip sucked in a breath, the long line of cabs outside Grand Central coming into focus. Blinking, he pulled out his wallet and paid the driver, reaching across the seat for his suitcase.

Heart ingrained in a familiar anticipatory thumping, he paused just outside the station entrance and pulled the folded ticket from his pocket. The morning was blustery and gray, the hand that had clutched hers for the first and last time in twenty years still red from the cold. The train ticket flapped loudly in a sudden gust, his name printed in bold, dispassionate black type.

_Philip Jennings._

He’d stayed on the bench long after she was gone, ears burning from the wind, a ferry horn from the East River sounding somewhere in the distance as he stared at the ticket, still able to feel her fingers in his.

They’d met for the first time on another bench on a sunny day, the weather far colder, the wind whipping her hair against her cheeks and sending the subtle scent of an unfamiliar soap teasing towards him. Finding an excuse to stretch the crick in his neck half a dozen times in ten minutes, he finally asked her name, something in the way she almost smiled when she caught him looking providing the needed boost of encouragement. Getting off the train after only a few stops, she dug in her purse for a slip of paper to give him her address, fingers cold and soft as she pressed it into his hand.

A week later they went for a walk through a park close to her apartment building, the weather not particularly well-suited to such an occasion, drizzly with low-hanging clouds. Distracted in trying to decide how best to reach for her hand, it was on their second lap around the muddy path that she announced her fingers were cold, a demure smile crossing her lips as she slid a hand alongside his in the pocket of his coat.

He kissed her later that afternoon on a bench just off the main square, accepting it was the closest thing they would get to privacy. Their mingled breaths hot on the cold day, his arm was propped at an awkward angle around her shoulders, tongue fervent in its effort to find a way into her mouth. She ducked her chin and turned away just as his trousers became noticeably tented, abruptly ending his access. Breath coming in rapid pants, he slumped against the cold iron bench, having no way to know it was the very place he would one day tell her he loved her, and that they would later sit together, holding hands in much the same way as she quietly broke his heart.

_Come with me, Mischa._

Taking a final breath, Philip stepped through the door.

He found her in one of the waiting areas, staring at a television set in front of a group of benches. Hands in her pockets, she’d arrayed her hair in fat, looping curls that hid one cheek, evidence of the beating he’d inflicted the night before still visible alongside her eye. Swallowing, he took a final glimpse of the girl he’d once loved, remembering her just as she’d stayed in his mind for twenty years.

The place she occupied was the last where innocence remained, a time when he hadn’t checked pupils for dilation when people talked and didn’t need to glance over one shoulder at every street crossing, when he’d made love as a young man desperate to get his hand up a skirt rather than to suck a source dry through manipulation or blackmail. Their relationship had formed not out of duty or because one had the skills the other lacked. Not because they’d been the most promising of their cadet classes, had worked the hardest to master the language or because they looked convincing together in a photograph on the mantle. When, months later, she brought him upstairs to her apartment while her grandmother stood in line for bread, stared deep into his eyes and unbuttoned her blouse, it was fueled by raw longing for _him_ , not because the Centre had assigned them to have a child or because she hated the thought of disappointing their superiors more than she detested his hands on her body, the last point in his life he could be sure something was real.

Irina turned from the TV, face lighting up in a radiant smile as soon as she saw him. Picking up her suitcase, she hurried over. Smiling in return, he edged into a more private space close to the wall.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come.” Her eyes sparkled as she said it. Setting the suitcase down, she lowered her gaze as if in wonder before raising it again.

He stared at her, making his peace with the understanding it was to be the last untarnished moment they would ever have. Taking a breath, he shook his head.

“I’m not going with you.”

Her smile faded. Their eyes stayed locked, each silently reading the other.

“Did you tell them? Is it over for me?”

It was perfectly delivered, just like he’d expected. Lips pursed, her face was lined with tension, voice strained with a note of indignation meant to draw his guilt.

“No.” He shook his head, staring into her eyes with all the affection she would look to see there. “Run, Irina. Disappear. Go where they’ll never find you.”

“Come with me, Mischa.”

Faint tears welling, she said it softer this time, choosing the exact words she’d used before, the ones that had triggered a silent alarm in the back of his mind. Everything was too neatly done, so conveniently lined up he couldn’t help but note he would’ve plotted it the same way had it been for Martha’s benefit, or for Annelise.

A sense of disillusionment with the Centre she would assume he shared. An attempt to play upon his guilt for what they’d done to the Polish priest, the speech the tiniest bit too impassioned, unlike the girl he knew. A son she’d been afraid to tell him about. Carefully dropped in earlier on to make him jealous, a husband conveniently gone. The beating he was required to carry out, guilt over doing such a thing to her clouding his judgment. The framed rape they had to finish off whether Bielawski took the bait or not, to do so under the guise of orders severing any last strings of guilt. All the nights she’d cried for him, so different from the way she’d ended things before, eyelids drooping slightly as she leaned closer in his hotel room, his lips on hers before he cared what he was doing.

She’d known how easy it would be for him to do, how tempting to seek refuge in a familiar place. The act of coaxing him along as intuitive for her as the day they’d met, she’d always known just what encouragement to provide to get him to ask her name or reach for her hand, to foster a connection in a relationship twenty years gone, all the while luring him closer for the kiss that would provide the solace and escape he’d been desperately seeking.

_We’ll disappear together and they will never find us._

Philip stared into her eyes, the only question remaining for whom she’d set out to trap him, herself or them.

“I can’t.” He said it quietly, hesitating just long enough.

“They don’t care about you.” Her voice hardened with an edge of urgency anyone else might’ve believed. “They don’t care what happens to any of us.”

“I have a wife. A family.”

Something changed in her face, gaze dipping briefly, a guardedness that hadn’t been there before evident in the set of her mouth.

“Why are you here, then?”

He took a breath, no longer smiling. “The boy.” His eyes locked with hers. “Is he real?”

All pretense falling away, Irina stared back at him, the bluff called.

It had been her one mistake. A fond, infectious smile spreading across her face as she spoke of the boy he’d never imagined could exist, she’d beamed with pride while relaying a brief history of which he’d be sure to approve. A desire to serve. The ambition to continue on to the university once he was done. The secret she’d kept done so for selfless reasons, the photograph in his hand bore enough of a likeness to make it plausible, her utter indifference as to what would become of the son she seemed to adore if they disappeared the sole damning piece casting surety to his doubts.

Any hope of a future shattered by her defection, he would be cast under a shadow of highest suspicion, at best kept under constant watch and used as bait to draw her out, at worst sent off to one of the labor camps as a warning for those contemplating similar plans. That she could blithely shrug off such an outcome for her own child, as callously detached from his fate as she was unconcerned at the thought of never seeing him again, spelled only two possibilities, one as unthinkable as the other, the only fact of which he could be certain that she’d lied to him then or now.

“Only duty and honor are real, Mischa.” Tone devoid of emotion, she managed almost to smile for a second as she said it, eyes never leaving his. “Isn’t that what we were told?”

At a loss, Philip lowered his head, barely able to draw a breath before the announcement for her train came over the loudspeaker.

The perfect air of stoic disappointment gracing her features, Irina bent to get her suitcase, waiting until he did the same to neatly walk by. Chest heavy, he followed a few steps behind, wanting to say something more, not knowing what, watching her smoothly descend the stairs without ever looking back.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, buddy, what do we do first?”

Two pairs of white, unscuffed sneakers rested on the bottom stair, one dwarfing the other. Fingers a little clumsy at picking up the laces, Henry carefully lifted them like long strands of spaghetti and arranged them in a messy “X.” Propping his chin on one knee, he maneuvered the first lace under the other. Philip smiled over at him, copying his movements.

“Now pull tight.”

Grabbing the laces in two fists, Henry wrestled them into something close to a firm knot, fingers starting to slip at the ends. Philip gave his back an encouraging rub and leaned over to straighten the tongue.

“What comes next?”

Henry bit his lip, brow furrowed. Their stop in the department store taking longer than planned, he’d dithered over the Velcro sneakers with C-3PO printed on the toe before finally pointing to a pair of Adidas bearing dark blue stripes exactly like his, the prospect of learning to tie them another matter entirely.

Letting go of one lace, he formed a large, inelegant loop. Footsteps pattered down from the top of the stairs. Dropping her backpack, Paige crouched on the step behind them and draped both arms around his neck, squeezing it in a choking hug.

“Hi, honey, _urgh_.” Disentangling her arms, he gave her a quick kiss. She perched both hands on his shoulders and leaned forward to better watch Henry’s progress.

“Daddy, are you driving us to school, or is Mom?”

“Mmm . . . probably me.” Bending closer to Henry, he gave his knee an encouraging nudge. “Okay, now wrap the other lace around the loop.”

“Can we stop on the way and get doughnuts? Pretty please?” Paige’s question was hushed but still plainly audible, the sound of the water turning off in the kitchen causing all three of them to glance up in unison.

“Yeah, can we?” Henry piped up in a hopeful whisper, fleeting progress on his laces halted.

Philip shook his head. “Not this morning. Mom and I have a meeting with a new client. Maybe later in the week if you both bring home good report cards from school.”

Henry frowned at his shoes. Paige bent closer.

“You’re doing it wrong.” Tone smug with all the imperiousness of older sisterhood, she pointed at his laces. “You have to make the loop smaller or it’ll come apart when you--”

“Paige, enough.” Philip turned to her, voice holding a warning.

“But he’s not _doing_ it right.”

_“Go away.”_ All but howling it, Henry shoved her.

“That’s enough.” Grabbing his arm, Philip wedged himself between them, catching Paige just as she batted Henry on the side of the head.

The pitiful wail that followed at least twice as loud as the injury warranted, he pointed indignantly. _“She hit me.”_

He folded his arms and put his head down, sniffling noises muffled by his shirt. Spatula in hand, Elizabeth stuck her head through the kitchen doorway and frowned at Paige.

“Apologize to your brother and come eat your breakfast.”

_“But he--”_

“Do I need to count to three?” She raised an eyebrow.

Making a face, Paige grumbled an apology, pushed off his back and squirmed between him and Henry, a few well-placed stomps wisely concluded before she made it into the kitchen. Philip reached over to rub Henry’s back, waiting until he straightened up and wiped his nose on one sleeve.

“You almost had it.” Ruffling his hair, he nudged him. “Let’s try that loop again.”

Henry bit his lip and formed a second one, pinching it off in two fingers. Keeping their movements carefully synched, Philip drew the second lace around the first and pulled it through, slowing so Henry could copy him. Shoulders deflating when he accidentally let go of the first loop, Henry lowered his head. Philip leaned over to finish it for him.

“That’s your best one yet,” he murmured, securing the second shoe with a double knot. Flashing him a quick wink, he nodded towards the kitchen. “I think Mom made bacon just for you.”

Elizabeth was setting the table when they entered. Taking a moment to kiss the top of Henry’s head and get him situated with a plate of bacon and eggs, she joined him at the sink. Glancing at the table, Philip poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Any better this morning?” She asked it quietly. Reaching around him to the cabinet, she got a second cup and held it out.

He poured it for her. “A little. Got the first part by himself.”

Taking a sip, she shot him a look. He sighed and leaned against the counter.

“He’ll get it.”

Elizabeth shook her head and flipped on the water. “Paige could do it by four.”

Philip stuck the pot in the coffeemaker. Smiling over at the kids, he turned to her, lowering his voice until it was barely audible over the water. “He wasn’t ready before. Now he is.”

Scrubbing the pan, she inclined her head. “And you really think that changes everything?”

He shrugged, waiting until she met his eyes.

“Sure.”

Staring at him for a few seconds, she turned to the dishes. “Are you going to drive them in or do you want me to?”

“I can do it.” He studied her profile, making a quick check of the breakfast table. “You ready for today?”

She didn’t answer, but the edge of her mouth twitched. It was no secret between them she loved to shoot, looked forward to the few times each year they drove to an outdoor range hours from the city to train. Smiling, he took his coffee to the table and dished up a plate.

“Spelling test this morning?” Glancing over at Paige, he raised an eyebrow.

She bobbed her head, chewing on a piece of toast. Grabbing the copy of her list off the fridge, he frowned at it while scooping up a forkful of eggs.

_“Decided.”_

Paige swallowed and traced the word onto her palm. “D-e-c--”

He took a bite, reaching for the bacon. Elizabeth slid into the chair beside him, plate adorned with a small spoonful of eggs and two buttered triangles of toast. Paige bit her lip, scrunching her nose hopefully at him.

“--e-i-d-e-d?”

“Almost.” He poured more orange juice.

Elizabeth leaned closer. “Remember, this one doesn’t have the extra ‘E’ in it. You had it last night. Think about the word in your head before you start spelling.”

Paige dangled her fork in two fingers and pushed eggs around her plate. “D-e-c-i-d-e-d?”

“Good.” Setting down his coffee, Philip picked another word off the list. _“Surface.”_

They finished breakfast in the usual manner of chaos, Paige and Henry shuffling off to find coats while he and Elizabeth scrambled to clear plates. Punching the button on the dishwasher, she reached around him to screw the lid on the jar of peanut butter. He shrugged into his coat and grabbed the car keys off the counter.

“Go over Henry’s line with him on the way to school,” she instructed, pushing two lunchboxes into his hands. “He was too discouraged at breakfast so I thought he needed a break, but if we don’t review it with him, he’s going to get up there tonight and--”

“I know. I’ll be back in a little bit.” Bending close to her ear, he whispered, “Get ready, Jennings.” Grinning when she failed to hide a smile, he winked and stuck his head into the hall.

“C’mon, guys. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Day faded to night. Cities became towns and then rolling hills, miles of stark, naked trees and dark conifers streaking past. He closed his eyes, losing track of everything but the ebb and flow of speed, the train bearing him ever closer to the place he’d spent fifteen years calling home.

He opened them again somewhere outside Baltimore, the sky the darkest shade of blue that couldn’t quite be called black, the glow of light from streetlamps and buildings off in the distance flickering into the compartment as he stared at the myriad reflections in the glass.

Clark was the awkward one, a man just bumbling enough to endear, so nasal and unaffected by the idea of romance no one had to ask why his pot still lacked a lid. Turning up on Martha’s doorstep in a dull suit and thick glasses, he couldn’t have seemed less of a threat, a lost soul every bit as lonely and desperate as her, Sunday afternoons at the office and late nights typing up reports having always called before companionship.

Scott came on hard and fast. Making eye contact with the young, bored trophy wife of a bureaucrat from across the room, he waited until she left the table to arrange their run-in at the bar. Giving her a false position at the Swedish embassy, it wasn’t until their third meeting for drinks at one of the hotels downtown that he dropped enough hints for her to work out the truth, confident in the tightness of the snare when she leaned close, smug in her own cunning, to accuse him of not really being a diplomat at all. Pupils wide at the thrill of having caught a spy, the low whisper in her ear that she couldn’t tell a soul was enough to get her up to his room not ten minutes later, back to the wall and legs writhing around his waist as he acted out the fantasy she’d been aching for. The story she bought without question providing the perfect excuse for his extended absences, she met him at the hotel whenever called, willing to do anything he asked for the price of a quick screw and a few pretty words.

It was Dave he most regretted. The one who’d never been with a man before, he hadn’t shied from the conflicted state of his emotions, using the uncertainty to lower his target’s guard as they clumsily got out of shirts and pants, letting himself be led through motions the small part of _him_ still conscious in the recesses of his mind wanted to recoil from. Head down and arms braced on a cheap comforter that stank of semen and sweat, he disconnected from what was being done until it was over, letting _Dave_ take the pain, absorb the flash of shame at the involuntary arousal that quickly followed, thankful for the dark contacts and shaggy wig the moment he opened his eyes and turned to face the staffer from the defense department they’d just photographed having sex with another man in a seedy motel room, the man whose life they would soon destroy.

Mikhail was the first he’d given up, the part of himself he’d willingly left behind. He was the nineteen-year-old who’d grinned the day he got his assignment, bursting with pride at having been chosen, having no way to grasp what he was really signing up for, nor what the years ahead would hold. An echo of a distant memory of someone who’d once been real, as the false fronts fell away there was simply nothing left of the man that mattered, _Mischa_ as much a lie as any of the others. _She_ never called him that, neither of them even once taking the liberty of repeating each other’s names, the act too much of an intrusion. He couldn’t think of her as _Nadya_ , never whispered to her in Russian while they made love, the thought of doing so both true and false, the woman he could imagine had once been Nadezhda not _his_ Elizabeth, whose voice he only ever heard in English, whose feet he rubbed when they were sore at night and whose hair snuck like a serpent onto his pillow when she flipped over in bed.

_I’ve been thinking about you. About us. I miss you_.

Still able to hear the quaver in her voice as she whispered the last three words, Philip lowered his head, haunted by the knowledge she would never have uttered them unless they were the irrefutable truth. Far from the murky grays his relationship with Irina had always inhabited, her world was a symphony of blacks and whites. For all of her faults, she blazed in the surety of her own truth, disdaining the subtlety of manipulation and for the vast balance of their marriage, dismissing him with an iciness that left little doubt she wanted no part of the feelings he silently harbored. There were no soft words to twist his emotions in order to get what she wanted from him, no question of motive. Having proven herself over the course of two decades unafraid of wounding him with the acerbic sting of her honesty, if she said she wanted him home, there was a truth in it that couldn’t be ignored.

Staring at the ring seated on his left hand, he absently fingered it. He’d loved her far longer than the word for it felt safe in his head, Elizabeth, who’d betrayed their partnership in every possible way, Elizabeth, who’d picked up the phone, swallowed her pride and called for what part of her must’ve condemned as the weakest and most pathetic of reasons, as humiliating to admit she missed him as to allow him the naked confirmation she couldn’t wait even a single night to tell him so. What for anyone else would’ve been trivial, for her an act harder than facing down an army, that she might’ve done so simply to hear the sound of his voice causing a wave of longing to thump, sore and uninvited, in his chest.

Elizabeth, whose desperation in defending her reasoning some part of him could almost pity, despite what she’d done, a pattern emerging in the justifications she made to herself. The rhetoric systematically pounded into them at the Academy, personal wants were marginalized, seen as a sign of weakness, sense of self slowly fading with every unthinkable act they were required to carry out. She’d never been able to put their work in a separate part of her mind, instead letting it slowly consume her, on the Centre’s orders shutting out all emotion from the person within, and with it, the possibility of being hurt, of feeling, the _real_ Elizabeth he’d always seen faintly behind the guardedness, the one who would’ve done anything to protect their children, who loved, smiled with genuine joy in her eyes the first time Henry spelled M-O-M in glued macaroni on a construction paper card, and felt all the things she wanted to deny herself, finally breaking free.

_It never really happened that way for us._

Her wariness at their first meeting written off to nerves and a less than veiled dose of disappointment, he’d only later understood that from the start he represented just another thing forced upon her, no different in her eyes from Timoshev, autonomy once again yanked away. Circumstances placing them in the worst of roles, she’d followed orders out of duty, years of suppressed anger balling ever tighter, the charade they were forced to maintain driving deeper her resentment, pain allowed a voice only in the haunted emptiness in her eyes the day they moved their bed up the stairs and the miserable angle of her mouth the first time she watched him get undressed. Any personal feelings between them poisoned before they had the hope to form, only after a lifetime of trusting acts, of skinned knees carefully bandaged and lullabies murmured as they watched the baby they both loved drift off to sleep at night, had she finally been able to see he’d never meant her any harm.

He shifted in the seat at the announcement they were departing Baltimore, the sky a dark, inky black mottled with stars. Swallowing, he closed his eyes as the train picked up speed, her face frozen, soft and hesitant, in his mind.

_I saw Henry and Paige . . . and you._

Whispered as if she could barely believe it herself, the naked uncertainty in her voice was startlingly unlike the woman he’d woken up beside for the better part of two decades, the wonder of such a statement guardedly unmasked that he might be allowed to see that little glimpse of _her_. What she held dear. What frightened her. What fears they told her she wasn’t allowed to have, strength a too-stiff blanket that could cover but never offer warmth. What she cared about in the deepest recesses of her heart, when all the rest fell away, what mattered most the small, precious family they’d formed together. The woman who stole socks from his drawer when her feet were cold, she remembered to pack him extra cookies in every lunch as reliably as turning her head if he dared try to kiss her on the mouth, for all of her faults, grounding him, the infuriating stubbornness that at times made him want to punch through the wall steadying in a way it had taken him years to recognize he quietly craved. Not allowing him to drift into something easier, forcing him to stay.

It was the act of becoming Philip Jennings that had changed him, irrevocably. A dossier full of lies he’d once seen as no more consequential than any of the others he told, a false background and a false wife, a house they would pretend to live in together, had altered him profoundly, made him into a different man. _Philip,_ the one who’d come to care for his family with a fierceness none of the others could claim, who would’ve given anything to keep Paige, Henry and Elizabeth safe and whole, had become the truth, etched indelibly into _him_ , her voice ripping him in two as she whispered the words he’d never imagined could bring with them such pain and regret, the very ones he’d waited a lifetime to hear.

_Come home._

 

* * *

 

They stopped at a gas station halfway to the middle of nowhere to change. Picking up a bag of M&M’s and a pack of Lifesavers from inside, Philip climbed into the Buick and checked the rearview mirror, catching sight of Elizabeth slipping out of the bathroom in back. He grinned and tore open the bag, leaving the Lifesavers in the crevice by her door handle where she’d be sure to see them.

She shot him a look the moment the car door shut, the effect only made better by a wig that bore an uncanny resemblance to something they might’ve hit on the side of the road.

_“Don’t.”_

With the false teeth in, it came out with a slight lisp. Grinning, he popped a few more M&M’s and started the car.

“I didn’t say a word.”

Smoothing the ugly plaid flannel, she propped an elbow on the window, giving him what could’ve almost been called a tolerant smile upon noticing the Lifesavers. He tugged his collar, the heavy sweatshirt and worn coat they’d picked up at the Salvation Army thick enough to add fifty pounds. Elizabeth leaned across the seat and touched the edge of his beard.

“It’s not quite tacked down on this side.”

“Yeah, well.” He pulled onto the highway. “The light was burned out in the men’s room. I had to make do.” He shook the bag of M&M’s. “Doesn’t itch so much anymore. Might be time to grow one for real.”

Giving a token smile at the joke they’d batted back and forth too many times over the years, she rubbed her bottom lip and stared out at the trees.

“The kids have their after-school program until five and then they need to be back to get into their costumes by six-thirty.” She checked her watch. “We need to leave by two, two-fifteen at the latest. Earlier if it looks like the weather is going to get worse.”

“Gives us a few hours. Least with the rain there shouldn’t be anyone out there today.”

Pulling off the highway at the sign for the National Forest, he crumpled the empty bag. Elizabeth rubbed her forehead.

“How was Henry’s line for the play?”

He turned onto the fire road.

“Paige must’ve said it with him a dozen times. We’ll just have to hope for the best. Maybe next year he’ll draw the yam instead. Yams seem like they’d be quieter.”

She gave him another look. Pulling into the gravel parking area, he shut off the engine. Getting out first, Elizabeth went to the trunk and uncovered the boxes of ammunition. She picked up one of the rifles.

“What do you want to start with?”

He checked the clip on his Beretta, grabbed the duffel bag and took the second rifle. “Couple warm-up rounds? Twenty-five yards?”

She scoffed and made a face. Shutting the trunk, he followed her over to the table.

“All right, then _you_ choose.”

Elizabeth set the rifle on the table and unzipped the duffel. Reaching into the bag for targets and masking tape, she raised an eyebrow. “Ten seconds. Fifteen, twenty-five and fifty yards. Three shots per target. One practice round to start.” She paused, a smile playing at the edge of her mouth. “Loser cleans the kitchen for a week.”

Unable to keep from grinning, he shook his head. “Deal.”

They shot for the better part of an hour before switching to rifles. Lying prone on the ground, he sighted the target at the far end of the range, exhaling completely to force the tension from his body. Making the final alignments, he applied slow pressure to the trigger. The shot went off. Sitting up to stretch, he blinked and glanced up at Elizabeth.

“Three inches to the left of center.” She handed the binoculars over and got into position with her own rifle. “You’re still anticipating the recoil.”

Choosing to ignore the superior edge to her tone, he waited while she got ready for her shot. There was a beauty in her concentration that was hard not to appreciate. Undistracted by either the wind or the fine mist of rain swirling underneath the shelter, her face grew perfectly still as she lined the target up in the sights, hands small but steady on the rifle, the calmness with which she approached it clean, businesslike and perfectly _her_.

She didn’t flinch when the round fired. Rising from the old blanket they’d laid out on the ground, she pushed up her glasses and reached for the binoculars.

Wrinkling his nose, he held them out. “If you were trying to shoot us a rabbit for dinner, we’d be having peanut butter.”

She snatched the binoculars from his hand. The square set of her jaw acknowledging reluctant confirmation of his assessment, she blew out her breath and stalked to the duffel bag. “Let’s take a break. Have a quick lunch and redo the last set.”

They squeezed together on a short wooden bench out of the wind. Elizabeth stuck her false teeth in the oversized pocket of her jacket, digging into the bag for two sandwiches.

“I made you ham and cheese.”

“That’s fine.”

They chewed in silence, watching one edge of the target flap angrily with each gust. Philip swallowed and uncapped the thermos of coffee.

“It’s windy today. Throwing off our aim.”

Elizabeth took the cup from him. “We’re getting rusty. Back home I could’ve made that shot half-asleep. And so could you.” Staring out at the forest, she shook her head. “We need to find more time to train.”

He finished off his sandwich and stuck the baggie in the lunch sack.

“Yeah, well. We take off too many days as it is for _clients_ that never pan out.” He accepted the chocolate chip cookie she passed him and popped half of it in his mouth. “We push it much more and eventually Barb and Stavos start getting curious why we’re never there.”

Lip creasing briefly along one edge, Elizabeth slowly nodded. He poured another cup of coffee, taking two gulps before passing it over to her.

“It’s almost one. Let’s repeat the last round and then head out. If the roads get worse we may need the extra time getting back.”

Finishing off the coffee, Elizabeth capped the thermos. “Let’s get to work.”

She grabbed her rifle off the bench and went back to their previous firing position. Philip glanced over at her, studying her profile while she rechecked the scope.

“You wanna make this round interesting?”

“More interesting than the fact that you’re doing the dishes for the next week?” Still positioning her rifle, she couldn’t quite keep the smugness from her voice, clearly enjoying the victory.

Shaking his head, he handed her the box of ammo. “Next month when we trade in the car? I win this round, we get the coupe. You win, we get the sedan like you wanted.”

She lifted her chin, a competitive spark lighting her eyes.

“You’re on.”

 

* * *

 

The water was running in the bathroom upstairs, light glowing soft from the thin crack under the door. Silently going to the closet to unpack, he laid his suitcase on the edge of the bed and unsnapped the latches, a rush of guilt hitting the moment he glimpsed the pastel stick of deodorant and tray of pink plastic curlers left out on the dresser, the sight painfully ordinary enough to cause a sudden dull tightening in his chest. Lowering his head, he sank onto the bed, slowly rotating the ring on his second to last finger.

The water shut off in the bathroom, the door opening a few seconds later. He didn’t turn. Stepping into the room, Elizabeth cleared her throat.

“How’d it go?”

The question all business, there was no hint of the softness or vulnerability that had been there before. Not looking at her, he took a breath.

“Bielawski’s finished.” He kept his tone neutral. “The Reagan administration doesn’t want a rapist leading the movement to push the Soviets out of Poland.”

“Right.” She stepped forward, toying with her fingers a little nervously. “They’re afraid if the KGB found out, they’d use it against them.”

She waited. Jaw tightening, he didn’t respond, hearing in her voice that she wasn’t angry anymore, hoped they could slide it under the rug neatly as they had everything else over the years. Standing, he jerked up the sleeve of his sweater and brushed past her towards the bathroom.

“Yeah.”

Elizabeth turned and caught his arm.

_“Philip.”_

The whisper plaintive, he reluctantly slowed, turning only halfway so he wouldn’t have to look at her. Thumb resting against the back of his wrist, she took a breath.

“When they tortured us, I blamed you for what happened.”

He turned to stare, the statement as incredible as it was somehow unsurprising she could’ve twisted it in such a way. Elizabeth shook her head, eyes never leaving his.

“To me . . . to us,” she paused, “it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry.”

Their eyes locked, he lowered his. Faltering when he didn’t answer, Elizabeth looked away, mouth briefly opening and closing.

“I _missed_ you.” She forced it out in a rush, the words crammed close together.

Turning just enough to focus on the edge of her mouth, he watched tension crease it as she tried to get the words out.

“I didn’t want to . . . I want us to be able to say what’s true. I want--”

She screwed her eyes shut, forehead lined with misery, each breath labored as if she’d been running for miles in the cold. Shaking her head, she tried again.

“Us . . . _it_ to be--”

Eyes still closed, she exhaled. Not straying from her face, he watched her struggle and briefly lose courage, offering a single word to prod her along only when she seemed in danger of giving up altogether.

“What?”

Elizabeth looked down and licked her lips, taking another halting breath.

“I want it to be--”

Her voice was softer this time, face momentarily going slack, lips starting to form a word, testing it, retreating. Finally she lifted her eyes to his.

“Real.”

Some of the tension seeming to drain away at the admission, she paused, lips parted, to stare up at him. There was a wideness to her eyes that he could do nothing but take in, stunned by the sight of her, the question that followed quiet, hesitant.

“Do you think . . . we could do that?”

He swallowed, the knife pushing deeper into his gut.

“I don’t know.”

Clearly not the answer she’d hoped for, Elizabeth looked down, lip quivering, mouth sinking at the corners. Waiting a moment, she raised her eyes to his, shoulders giving a nervous jerk.

“I would try. Will you try?”

Suddenly unable to breathe, he stared back at her, something in the whisper catching him hard. For Irina it had always been effortless, intuitive, lies forming on her lips with neither guilt nor regret as she seamlessly wove them with the last threads of truth. Elizabeth, who shot men in the head with as little equivocation as dumping an extra scoop of detergent in with the laundry, stood before him stuttering from the difficulty of getting the words out, lips pressed together and eyes rimmed with red.

_For him._

He turned to face her fully and slowly laced their fingers, never having meant anything more in his life.

“Yes.”

The lines around her mouth softened. A brief glance up immediately rescinded, she lowered her gaze to his chin, head dipping, unspoken words once again forming at her lips. Pressing her eyes closed, she took a breath.

“I . . . have to ask you something.” Faltering, she shook her head. “Just promise you’ll tell me the truth.”

Nodding, he leaned closer. “Of course.”

Lips trembling, she stared up at him. “Did something happen between you and Irina?”

Her voice broke slightly at her name, eyes growing glassy with tears. The knife twisting deeper, he looked away, forced into a corner.

“Do you still love her?”

He stared into her eyes, no longer needing to question it, knowing he could never do it, crush her and destroy any hope of _them_ over a mistake he would’ve given anything to take back.

“ _Nothing_ happened.”

Shaking his head, he said it just quietly enough, unable to entirely deem it a lie. Sex something they would’ve had to go through with regardless to provide evidence for the rape, she would have been unbothered by it with anyone else, that particular exclusivity one their relationship had never been able to claim.

Nodding almost automatically, Elizabeth blinked, breath catching with relief. Privately tortured, he squeezed her fingers, hoping she would hear the sincerity in words meant more than anything he’d ever uttered.

“There’s only you. It has _always_ been you.”

She stared up at him, eyes bright and unguarded. Rushing into his arms a second later, she gripped his shoulders and buried her face in his neck, the wave of relief that washed over him choked thick with guilt.

Pulling her close, he rocked her slowly, trying to force the previous night from his mind. Arms locked tight around his shoulders, she shuddered and cleared her throat, a tear streaking hot and wet down his neck before she swiped it away. Pulling back a little, she snuck a hand up to wipe her nose, hair falling forward past her cheeks, eyes still red and wounded. Fingers fumbling until they found his, she took a breath and lifted her chin, their eyes finally meeting. He smoothed her hair back and nodded.

“Give me a minute.”

The act fell the second the bathroom door was shut. Stomach tight and sore, he leaned against the sink to regroup, staring down at the running faucet until a sound from the bedroom jerked him into motion. Rubbing his face, he swallowed and turned off the tap.

She was sitting up in bed when he came out of the bathroom, knees bent, legs smooth where they peeked out from the covers. The set of her mouth flat and unsmiling, she crawled over to his side, fingers working under the bottom edge of his sweater. They glided in a soft arc over his stomach, gradually pushing up until he lifted his arms.

Searching her face doggedly as she avoided his eyes, he watched her expression change as she stared at the bruises. A pained crease briefly visible in her cheek, she rested a hand flat against his chest, slowly bending to press her lips just above his navel. Mouth warm against his skin, she lifted it and made contact again an inch higher, a curtain of swaying hair tickling from the middle of his torso down to just below his hips. Exhaling, he watched her hands slide lower to unbuckle his belt, blood coursing hot and fast as her lips again brushed his stomach. She rarely kissed him there, and never any lower, certain things a casualty of their work, performed impersonally too many times ever to feel like an act of intimacy.

Pausing to stare up at him, she lifted her chin in search of his mouth, easing back onto the bed and opening her knees so he could get between them. Arms curled around his neck, a sigh catching softly in her throat when he pushed up her nightgown to palm her small and firm in his hands, her body strong and lithe as a dancer’s.

Her tongue found his, the grip on his shoulders growing desperate, hips squirming up off the bed. Moving over her, he pulled down the front of his briefs, waiting until she met his eyes to slowly push into her. Face going slack, she lifted her chin and exhaled, breath reaching his lips as he laced their fingers, covered her mouth with his, and silently began to thrust.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, Henry, say it again.”

A groan sounded from the backseat, Henry flopping over to lie flat on his side.

“C’mon, Henry, you can do it.” Indian braids rustling under a construction paper headdress complete with feathers and beads, Paige leaned over to give him a hug.

Philip glanced in the rearview mirror and turned into the school parking lot. “One more time, buddy.”

Rubbing his eyes, Henry sighed and mumbled, “After the first winter passed, they showed the pilgrims how to plant maize.”

“Pil- _grims_ ,” Paige corrected helpfully.

_“That’s what I said.”_

“Enough, both of you. Henry, you’re going to do fine.” Flashing him a look across the front seat, Elizabeth picked up her purse and the grocery sack with the rest of Henry’s costume and turned around. “We’re here. Let’s go.” She nodded to Paige. “Hold Henry’s hand.”

“Can I walk with Daddy?”

“Me too,” Henry echoed immediately, trying to squirm his arm out of Paige’s grip.

“Nope. It’s raining and we’re running late.” Philip shook his head. “You guys go with Mom. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The school cafeteria was packed by the time he found a spot and made it inside, the furnace on high enough to roast everyone inside. Spotting Elizabeth seated by herself with her purse in an empty chair just as the lights went down, he edged through the crowd.

“You’re soaked.” Frowning, she leaned over to straighten his tie and brush off his shoulders. “You should’ve taken the umbrella.”

“I’m fine.” He slid out of his jacket, bending close enough to murmur next to her ear, “Can you believe all this?”

A brief look exchanged conveying her true opinion on the matter, she handed him a program and continued in a voice loud enough to be overheard. “Paige is in the second song and the fourth one. Henry’s class is up last, right after that. Did you make sure to double-knot his shoes?”

“Yeah.” Philip glanced around the room as the principal came up on stage to make introductions. “You’d think they could turn the heat down a little in here.”

Settling back in the chair, he picked up the program, squinting to find their names.

_Henry Jennings. Paige Jennings._

Smiling a little, he closed it and folded his arms, managing not to check his watch until two minutes into a band of pilgrims struggling to climb off a poorly constructed Mayflower. He bent close to Elizabeth’s ear.

“Didn’t know they had Adidas back then.”

“Shh.”

“Woulda made it easier, I guess, when it was time to harvest the crops--”

“Are you going to talk through the whole thing?” She raised an eyebrow, something in the angle of her mouth hinting she wasn’t really angry.

He let his cheek twitch, turning to face her with a deadly serious expression. “Maybe.”

Shaking her head, she turned back to the performance without answering. He stole another glimpse at her profile halfway through the fourth grade’s final song, unable to help but enjoy the way her fingers were curled in front of her lips, chin tucked just a little, smile nearly hidden by her hand as she watched Paige sing. Flicking his eyes forward before she could catch him staring, he turned when she touched his arm.

“This is Henry’s class.”

They exchanged a look, the hand hovering near her mouth this time crowned by whitened knuckles. Taking a breath, he tucked an arm across the back of her seat.

“He’ll be fine.”

She didn’t answer, eyes locked on the wriggling figure in yellow and green at the edge of the stage. He rubbed her shoulder softly, giving Henry a quick thumbs up when he craned past a pair of redheaded radishes to peer out into the audience. Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair, fingers steepled as the final Indian brave said his line.

Henry stepped up to the microphone. “After the first winter passed . . .”

Barely breathing, Elizabeth didn’t move an inch, both of them silently mouthing the words until at last Henry came to a halting, but mostly uncatastrophic finish. Exhaling, she touched her neck the second he stepped back, shoulders falling an inch in relief. Philip grinned and rubbed her arm.

“He was great.”

Elizabeth nodded, tension bleeding from her face as she ran a hand through her hair. They filed up to the stage to collect the kids after it was over, Paige dutifully latched onto Henry’s arm like a mother lioness even as he tried to wriggle away.

“Daddy, did you hear me?” Freeing Henry, Paige hopped over and tugged at his sleeve.

Wrapping her in a hug, he kissed the top of her head. “You bet, sweetie.” He grabbed Henry off the stage and spun him in a circle. _“And here we have the great Jennings ear of corn . . .”_

Giggling at his narrator voice, Henry squirmed when he pretended to eat him, hair disheveled and face red when he was set down.

“We’re so proud of you.” Squeezing him, Elizabeth pushed his bangs back. “I knew you could do it.”

Shaking his head in protest to the forced combing, Henry scrunched his nose. “Was I as good as the turkey?”

“Absolutely,” Elizabeth assured him, nodding emphatically. She stood and brushed off her pants. “Now we need a picture of you both in your costumes. Come stand in front of the stage.”

“I think Mom needs to be in the picture too.” He uncapped the lens, stooping to get the angle right. “Okay, on three.”

Draping an arm around Paige and over Henry’s shoulder, Elizabeth turned to face the camera, angle of her mouth implying she thought he was being silly, but eyes bright enough to light the room.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t speak again until sometime after midnight, the room silent and dark except for moonlight coming in through the curtains. Lost in thought, Philip stared up at the ceiling, fingers combing through the loose, messy mane of her hair. Bodies still tangled, her skin was warm and flushed, breath tickling soft against the base of his throat. Fingers began to circle on his chest.

“I missed you.”

The second time she’d said it, the words were tainted with something different. Silence descended once again, the tick of the clock on the nightstand setting him on edge.

“Was it strange?” Voice breaking, she cleared her throat. “Seeing her again?”

Careful not to react, he kept his eyes fixed on a point on the ceiling, mapping the soft underside of her arm. “I don’t know. Maybe a little.” He traced the bones of her wrist. “It’s been so long. I don’t . . . really know her anymore.”

Elizabeth slowly nodded. Waiting a moment, she took a breath. “Do you wanna talk about . . . before?”

The question was hesitant. He closed his eyes and stroked the back of her hand, waiting in the dark until she finally spoke.

“When they threw me in the car I thought . . . that was it,” she pressed her lips together, “for them . . . for us.” She paused, breathing growing strained. “And once I saw they had you too--”

“Yeah.”           

He swallowed, chest growing tight. Elizabeth tucked her head under his cheek, tears running hot and silent down his neck.

“I imagined Henry being worried when it got dark and we didn’t come home and Paige trying to tell him everything would be okay.” Voice thick, she wiped her nose on the back of her wrist. “And then both of them getting scared the later it got, waiting there together in Henry’s room until--”

Nudging her off, he sat up, heart pounding like a drum. Elizabeth slid a hand to his shoulder. Head down, he ran both hands through his hair, trying to slow his breathing.

“Philip.”

She whispered it, touching his cheek until he reluctantly turned.

“When Zhukov came here he asked me if you were the one, the reason we didn’t deliver Timoshev.” Pausing, she shook her head. “I didn’t tell him. Not about what you almost did, not about any of it.” Slowly nodding, she looked him in the eye. “I told him it was me.”

He studied her face, not answering, he studied her face, the admission hardly an apology, what it must’ve taken for her to lie to Zhukov still not insignificant. Curling her knees to her chest, Elizabeth pushed back her hair.

“You remember Paige went through that stage where she would barely eat anything but toast and cereal, and we had the worst time convincing Henry he had to put on pants before running out the front door,” gesturing with one hand, she stared off into space, “and you and I were just _there,_ rushing around, trying to make sure they had coats and shoes and lunches and homework before getting out the door. And somewhere along the way things started changing for us and I couldn’t see it at first, and then by the time I did, they’d been different for a long time and I just hadn’t seen it--”

She trailed off. He didn’t answer. Elizabeth waited a minute and reached for his hand.

“When they locked me in that room, there were photographs on the walls . . . the pictures you took of Paige and Henry when we spent that weekend hiking last fall, of the four of us going out for ice cream after dinner.” She stared blankly ahead. “And all I could think about was how _normal_ we looked together, just like any other family, how _happy_ they were that day . . . and how much I wished we could all have had just one more day together like that so they would remember us that way, no matter what anyone told them later.”

He looked down, fingers tightening around hers.

“Philip.” Forehead lined, Elizabeth reached up to touch his cheek, gently turning him to face her. “Zhukov asked me if they could trust you. I told him I’d made a mistake.”

He met her eyes. Blinking back tears, she ran a finger over his lips, mouth turning down at the corners.

“I couldn’t imagine any of it without you there,” she whispered, voice growing hoarse. “I didn’t want to.”

Closing his eyes, he swallowed. Fingertips mapped his cheeks, tracing away the tears. Wrapping both arms around his neck, Elizabeth curled closer, holding him tightly. She lifted her chin to find his mouth, hands moving over his chest, stroking his shoulders and working the tension from the back of his neck, anger slowly diminishing until it was drowned out by the weariness of two weeks without sleep.

They lay back against the pillows. Cuddled close against his chest, she swallowed, voice barely louder than a whisper.

“It scares me.”

He listened to her heartbeat for a moment. “Scares you?”

Licking her lips, she hesitated. “ _This_.” She closed her eyes. “That it feels . . . right.” Pausing, she let her fingers curl at his chest, testing the word. _“Us.”_

He smoothed her hair, allowed a private moment to drink in the scent of it. She took a breath and touched her bottom lip, a little shy.

“Was it always like that for you?”

He watched her chin dip as she said it, the softness in her voice tempting him more than ever to finally say the words they’d held back for years, freely offered to Henry and Paige but never each other. Watching the lines smooth in her cheeks as he started to speak, he swallowed, instead pressing his lips to the slender third finger of the woman _Philip Jennings_ had loved far longer than she’d known.

“Yeah.”

 

 


	8. Mutually Assured Destruction

She couldn’t have named with any certainty what pulled her from sleep, other than possibly the perverse, alien feeling of contentment. A light stirring in the bed nudged her further towards wakefulness, the arm around her waist cinching tighter in response. Too comfortable to open her eyes, she complied, wedging her butt into Philip’s crotch for more heat. He grunted under his breath and snuggled closer.

Deliciously warm, she drifted back off, an undetermined span of minutes passing before his shift in weight again woke her. The pillow they shared was soft under her cheek, infused with the scent of laundry detergent and sleep, hair and skin, a faint whiff of cold cream and the stronger, masculine tang of deodorant, dulled after a full day on his skin and mingled with the muskier scent that was _him_ , wafting from a warm crevice in the sheets every time he grumbled sleepily behind her and stole back the arm that was keeping her warm to scratch. Stretching out, Elizabeth yawned and flexed her toes, their legs momentarily disentangling. Philip growled, arm locking possessively. Giggling, she burrowed back under the covers, bumping into his morning erection.  

Lips found the back of her neck. Wet and more than a little ticklish, they lingered at the top of her spine, the rough scratch of stubble coaxing a shiver as he began to slowly inch higher. A hand smoothed her hair out of the way, the brief rush of cool air replaced by the tantalizing heat of his breath. Sighing, she tilted her head to give him better access, the lazy, feathery stroke of fingers along her bare arms dissuading any thought of moving. He nudged the thin strap of her nightgown off one shoulder, kisses trailing along the length of her collarbone as he slowly worked his way to her throat.

A mass of rumpled curls teased the shell of her ear, the hand that had spent the night tucked securely at her waist gently rotating her towards him. Licking her lips when his mouth reached the sensitive base of her throat, she let out the breath she’d been holding.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

The paltriest of excuses, she tried to whisper it, what resulted closer to a croak. Unperturbed, Philip continued his project of mapping her throat, the quiet exhalation just under her jaw suspiciously like a laugh.

_“Neither have I.”_

Voice infused with false gravity, there was a less than subtle tease to it, as if she’d proposed they walk into a firefight unarmed as opposed to acknowledging a temporary lack of toothpaste. She ducked her chin, barely stifling a giggle when he nuzzled his way into a particularly ticklish spot. Eyes red and still a little squinted, Philip propped himself on one arm above her.

“Morning.”

His smile was sleepy, relaxed. Unable to stop a silly grin from spreading across her lips, she reached up to touch his chin, running one fingertip over a prickly layer of stubble. Settling on both elbows, he took his time in kissing her, clearly unalarmed by the prospect of morning breath.

Her hand slid to his cheek. Sinking back onto the pillows, she traced the lines creasing the edge of his mouth, faint markers of fatigue having grown far too familiar over the years. Gray flecked the hair around his temples, the strays she neatly dealt with the moment they showed themselves in the bathroom mirror ignored with a casual indifference she couldn’t help but envy, his body worn and comfortable in the way it fit around hers. Stroking his bottom lip softly with one thumb, she lifted her chin again, inviting him closer. The second kiss longer and unrushed, he stared down at her once they parted, something in the intensity of his gaze forcing her to look away.

“It’s cold.”                                                

Scrunching under the covers as she said it, she ducked her chin and scooted up against him. An arm settled heavy and warm over hers, his chest like an oven against her back.

“Better?” He whispered it just behind her ear, lips touching the spot a second later.

The pillow rubbed under her cheek as she smiled. He laced their fingers, inhaling the scent of her hair. Silently relishing the perfect, silky coolness of the sheets against her bare feet, she wiggled her toes, drowsiness threatening to descend.

“The news said it might snow tonight,” she whispered, touching her chin when he nuzzled the nape of her neck.

“You wanna go outside and build a snowman?”

He yawned and flopped behind her on the pillow, a quiet fart muffled by the covers as he snuggled closer. Fingers brushed warm and gentle against her skin, tucking her hair out of the way.

Giggling, she shook her head. “We should pick up marshmallows for the kids.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He pressed his lips to the juncture of shoulder and throat. Breath catching, she closed her eyes. Clearly encouraged, he slipped lower to the bare plane of her back, heat from his mouth caressing her skin in slow waves as the kisses grew enticingly lighter.

“That tickles.” The words barely audible, she licked her lips, hips pushing backwards on their own volition.

Capturing them, he circled her waist, hands warm and strong through the soft cotton of her tank. He kissed her neck again, their legs slowly intertwining, and fitted up against her so they were spooned. Still a little shy, she bit her lip and tested the words first in her head, stomach giving a tentative, giddy jump as she took a breath and freed them.

“It’s . . . nice.” Pausing, she slowly nodded. “You know, this.”

“Yeah?”

The grin in his voice was poorly masked. Secretly glad she was facing away, Elizabeth touched her chin, mouth curling into a smile.

“Yeah.” She whispered it, frowning slightly when the kisses took an erratic turn towards the top of her arm. Giggling, she glanced back at him. “What are you _doing_?”

Lazy and playful, he pushed up on an elbow behind her and traced a single finger around one of the moles on her shoulder. “This one’s my favorite.”

_“What?”_ Laughing as she said it, the question came out practically a squeak. “C’mon.”

He kissed it again, slowly turning her onto her back. Legs parting with little encouragement, she curled fingers into his hair, knees angling up and out as his lips descended to her throat. He pushed her nightgown up just far enough to get beneath it, the heat of his hands blissful as she arched into them.

Flashing her a mischievous wink, he burrowed under the covers. She closed her eyes, breath stilling in anticipation as lips tickled cool and wet against the base of her sternum, wandering slowly south. Stomach taut and trembling, Elizabeth let her toes curl into the sheets, tension beading tighter with every glancing brush of his mouth. A single finger hooked itself over the edge of her panties, just beginning to slowly tease when the sound of a slammed drawer and muffled argument floated up from downstairs.

The subsequent huff of breath above her navel was far less sensual. His forehead came to rest on her stomach, hands marking time at either side of her rib cage as she leaned over to grab the clock off the nightstand. Rubbing her nose, she set it back down.

“It’s almost seven-thirty. Does Henry have practice this morning?”

His head reappeared. Face red and hair clingy with static, he propped himself over her. “Yeah.”

They exchanged a look. Lifting a hand, she stroked the imprint a wrinkle in the pillowcase had left in his cheek, staring into his eyes for a long moment before pushing off the pillow to meet him. Mouths fitting together, she curled fingers into his hair, for once not caring if her face was splotchy, her breath terrible and legs badly in need of shaving, none of it seeming to matter as she wrapped both arms around his shoulders and kissed him deeply.

Releasing him, she sat back on her heels and raked a hand through her hair. Philip loosened the drawstring of his pants and crawled out of bed.

“I gotta pee. You want first shower or second?”

She grabbed her robe, shivering as she slipped it on. “Second. I’ll make breakfast and you can drop off the kids. Pancakes?”

Halfway into the bathroom, he stuck his head out and frowned. “Where’s Paige going?”

“Science project to work on.” She knotted the robe and shook out her hair, raising an eyebrow in his direction. “At _Jennifer’s_ house.”

Not missing the drop in her voice, he narrowed his eyes. “So we’ll have . . . what, an hour to ourselves?”

She shrugged and let her lips curl into a smile, holding his gaze a second longer than necessary on her way out the door. Once outside, she slumped against the wall and released the breath she’d been holding, rubbing her face with both hands.

Things between them cautiously improving, by the third day the hurt had faded from his eyes, smiles infused with hints of the impish playfulness she’d missed. The jokes had returned soon after, private looks exchanged across the breakfast table, lips seeking out a soft inch of exposed skin every time he passed behind her in the kitchen. Quickly becoming a beast that fed off itself, the ante was raised with every stolen kiss and muffled giggle as he found excuses to sneak arms around her waist while pretending to help with the laundry or recap the toothpaste for her, escalating to the point she could barely look at him without bursting into a ridiculous grin. Dizzy in anticipation of his breath on the back of her neck, she couldn’t help but duck her chin the moment she heard his voice down the hall, cheeks sore from a week and a half of smiling.

The water started running in the bathroom. Pushing away from the doorjamb, Elizabeth cleared her head and reached for the railing. Henry and Paige were propped in front of the TV at opposite ends of the couch.

“How about pancakes?”

She hit the switch on the coffee maker. Henry didn’t budge. Turning over one shoulder, Paige watched her for a minute before padding into the kitchen in fuzzy slippers that had seen better days, the pink plaid pajamas they’d been sure she’d grow into within the year still an inch too long at the wrists.

“Can I help?”

One hand already on the flour canister, Elizabeth glanced down at her. She turned back to the counter, tapping thoughtful fingers for a few seconds before pointing to the drawer containing the utensils.

“Why don’t you mix the pancakes?”

Pushing her sleeves up, Paige got out the measuring cup. Elizabeth bent to retrieve the skillet from the dishwasher, only briefly hesitating.

“No cartoons?”

Paige shrugged, not bothering to look up. “Bugs Bunny. I’ve seen it.”

The answer was laced with all the blithe indifference of adolescence, the same girl who’d once perched on the sofa at Philip’s side every Saturday morning as they slurped up twin bowls of Cheerios, her hair in pigtails and his in curly disarray, wrinkling her nose in disdain. Watching her for a moment, Elizabeth nodded silently, laying out strips of bacon in neat rows.

The skillet began to crackle, the aroma of breakfast and brewing coffee filling the kitchen. Going to the cabinet for glasses and plates, she put them out on the island.

“Henry, come set the table.”

“Can I do it at the next commercial?”

Voice rising to a pleading note at the end, he didn’t budge from the TV, eyes all but glued to the screen. She shook her head, not fighting it. Coming back to turn the bacon, she watched Paige gingerly pour thick, pale batter into the pan.

“How long before I flip them?” Setting the bowl aside, she wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

Elizabeth closed the cabinet. “When they bubble all over.” Pouring herself coffee, she called over one shoulder, “Henry, the table.”

Sighing in an exaggerated fashion, he rolled off the couch and dejectedly got to his feet. She had a quick sip of coffee and turned back to the stove, watching Paige clumsily attempt to flip the first pancake only to have it flop over the edge of the pan. Sticky batter dripped in glops onto the stove, sizzling where it came in contact with the burner. Face falling, Paige shoved it closer to the middle with the tip of the spatula.

“They’re awful.”

Elizabeth started to speak and then stopped herself. Pushing her hair behind one ear, she took a breath. “You know, my mother and I used to make pancakes together just like this.”

The subject piquing a hint of interest, Paige glanced up. “Really?”

“Mm-hmm.” Rubbing the edge of her mouth, Elizabeth poked a fork at the bacon and smiled a little, remembering. “I liked watching her do it. She could always make them come out perfectly round and exactly the same size.” She wrinkled her nose. “I never could.”

Paige offered a brief nod. Studying her face for a moment, Elizabeth leaned closer, flashing a conspiratorial smile.

“Besides, you know _Dad’ll_ still eat it.”

A dimple began to tug at the corner of her cheek. Slipping the spatula under the first pancake, she slid it onto a plate. Looking down when footsteps thumped on the stairs, Elizabeth hid a smile and tucked her hair behind one ear. Paige edged around her, temporarily abandoning the pancake starting to bubble in the center of the pan.

_“Dad.”_

“Morning, hon.” Bending to kiss the top of her head, Philip gave her a quick hug.

Rescuing the spatula before anything could get knocked over, Elizabeth slid it under the pancake and nodded to Paige. “I’ll finish up. Go get dressed so Dad can drop you off when he takes Henry to practice.”

Keeping a straight face, Philip pretended to sneak up behind her. Elizabeth closed her eyes and let her chin dip, fingers curling shyly in front of her mouth.

_“Morning.”_ Pressing a kiss to the back of her neck, he gave her waist a soft squeeze and moved around her to the coffee.

A little flustered, she smoothed her hair and reached for a plate. “You’re still going to get a haircut later?”

Pretending to think it over, he took a gulp and propped a hand on the counter.

“Jerry Butler, Doug’s dad from Henry’s team?” Voice contemplative, he raised an eyebrow. “He’s growing his into a ponytail.”

She narrowed her eyes and passed him the plate of bacon. “Take Henry with you when you go. He needs a trim.”

Winking, he grabbed his coffee.

“Sure.”

Turning back to the counter as soon as he was gone, she shook her head and lifted a hand to cover her smile, still able to feel the tickle on the back of her neck in the last place his lips had touched.

 

* * *

 

The sharp, angry pound of thunder jerked her from what had been, at best, minutes of sleep. Not moving a muscle in the seconds that followed, she held her breath, clinging to the vain hope the inevitable wouldn’t follow. As if on cue, a wail sounded from down the hall, simultaneously both pitiful and demanding, indignation that she’d dared creep from the room to leave her alone laced thick in every shriek.

Mouth dry, Elizabeth swallowed and crawled from the bed, a hand trailing over the rumpled comforter out of habit. She dragged the robe over her shoulders, rooting for armholes. Running a tired hand through her hair, she knotted the belt and cracked the nursery door.

“Shh-shh.”

Lifting Paige into her arms, she circled the room, bouncing her lightly as she felt her diaper. Another flash lit the window. Still pacing, she leaned over to push back the curtain. Rain pattered noisily on the roof outside, the street a dark, inky black reflected under the streetlights, the Pontiac nowhere in sight.

Kissing the fuzzy top of Paige’s head, she carried her over to the rocking chair, nearly tripping over one of Mr. Bear’s fat, stuffed paws in the dark. Exasperated, she kicked him under the crib, vowing to arrange his sudden disappearance if Philip left him out again. Paige gurgled and began to squirm, cries becoming fainter, features slowly softening. Settling back in the chair, Elizabeth closed her eyes and slowly rocked from heel to toe, delicately fingering the silky tufts of reddish hair that had come as a surprise. Her eyes had begun to darken, gradually losing Philip’s blue, a fleeting curiosity whether they might turn gray to match her own silenced as they began to take on hints of brown.

Yawning, Paige groped for her, small, pale fingers clamping onto the lace trim of her nightgown. Elizabeth slipped a single finger into one tiny palm, taking in the plump contours of her face as rain murmured on the roof overhead. Bending to kiss her again, she waited until her grip began to loosen to gently lay her in the crib.

The bedroom was empty and dark, the clock next to the bed showing sometime past three. Head aching, Elizabeth crawled under the covers, barely getting her pillow situated when the garage door rumbled downstairs. The sound filling her with equal measures of wariness and relief, she curled her legs to her chest, arm tucked snugly under the pillow.

He took his time coming upstairs. Still awake, she waited until he eased the door shut to lift her head.

“How’d it--?”

He crossed the room without looking at her, pausing only to step out of his shoes and toss his jacket over the chair before disappearing into the bathroom. Staring after him, she sucked in a sharp breath when the hot water was yanked on. Instantly furious, she slammed a fist into the covers, anger surging with the pounding throb in her temples as she waited for Paige’s tiny wail.

By some miracle it didn’t come. Still seething, she flopped back on the pillows, too on edge to sleep. He took a longer shower than usual, head down and eyes averted when he finally emerged. Not saying anything, she watched his back in the dark, tension obvious in his shoulders as he dropped his clothes in the hamper and hung his belt on the door.

“You got it?”

He exhaled quietly and pulled the towel off his waist, digging in the drawer for a pair of pajamas.

“Yeah.”

Waiting a moment, she rubbed her lip and took a breath.

“We got a message from the Centre while you were gone. They’ve gotten intelligence the C.I.A. may be planning to launch a new program in Vietnam in the coming months. They think your source’s office may have access to--”

Running a hand over his face, Philip quietly shut the closet door. “Yeah, well, these things can’t be rushed.”

She stared up at the ceiling as he came around the bed.

“We’re at a critical point.” Nodding slowly, she was careful to keep her voice even. “With the conflict escalating they’re under pressure. They wouldn’t be asking us to do this if it wasn’t important.”

Philip grunted and peeled back the covers, climbing into bed.

“They know it takes longer to get a source going when we have to do it by force.” Tossing the extra pillow onto the floor, he scooted down. “It requires a careful balance. Start out slow and work up to the heavier stuff once he’s in too deep to turn back--when we have something worse than just a couple photographs to hold over him.” He sighed and raised a tired arm over his head, the smell of smoke and alcohol still clinging to his skin. “We rush this and we get _nothing_.”

Exhausted, Elizabeth rubbed her face. “We have to figure out how to--”

He snorted.

_“We?”_

The retort dripped with sarcasm. She closed her eyes.

“They get impatient, they’re gonna make us blow the whole thing.” Exhaling, he shook his head. “And then it’ll all have been for--”

Hand clenching into a fist, he fell silent. Elizabeth turned to study his profile in the dark, something in the rigid angle of his jaw and vacantness in his eyes stirring a strange sense of uncertainty. He hadn’t reacted upon receiving the orders, seemingly indifferent in relaying back to her the mundane details of surveillance rounds and camera equipment as if it was any other mark they were preparing to blackmail. Neither of them harboring any illusions the measures he’d have to take to get what they needed, she’d carefully avoided any outward reaction, wary as the initial contact approached and he slowly began to withdraw.

“All right.” She tapped her chin, slowly nodding. “We’ll call in tomorrow. Tell them we need more time.”

He swallowed.

“Paige’s checkup go okay?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. The pediatrician wants her to gain more weight.” She rubbed her face, frowning a little. “I couldn’t get her to sleep after you left. She kept getting woken up by the storm.”

Giving his pillow a quick punch, he flipped over and settled on his side without a word.

 

* * *

 

Eyes closed and mouth having long fallen open, Elizabeth let out a silent, shuddering breath. Her back slowly began to arch, fingers trembling where they’d knotted in Philip’s hair.

He slowed. One sock still snugly encased the length of her calf, the other having gradually inched its way down until it lay bunched at her ankle, leg writhing trapped across his back. Licking her lips, she opened her eyes, briefly glimpsing a mop of curly hair in subtle, fervent motion between two columns of palest white. Closing them again, she swiped sweaty strands of hair away from her face, biting her lip when he once again delved into the right spot.

Her toes slowly curled, the breath catching in her throat. Lost to everything but the sinuous caress of hands at her hips, the heat of his mouth and the dogged, ticklish building of pressure, she squirmed at the edge of the bed. He bore down harder, unrelenting. Free hand twisting in the sheets, she bit her lip.

“Philip, _stop_.”

His tongue froze in place, forehead wrinkling as he looked up at her. Heart pounding, she unfurled the fingers from his hair and groped for his hand, tugging him onto the bed. Their eyes locked, Philip climbed between her legs, lips a dark, dusky red and slightly parted. He wiped his mouth and reached down to position himself, pushing into her as she shakily traced his face.

Groping for his hands, she laced their fingers, letting him brace her arms at either side of her head as he began to thrust. Faces slack, their noses rocked inches apart, his breath wafting hot against her lips, syrup from the pancakes at breakfast mingled with the taste of _her_ on his tongue. The intensity with which he watched her during sex at times unnerving, for once she made no move to shy from it. She craned away from the pillow to meet his mouth, the kiss that followed sloppy and fumbling, fingers flexing where they gripped his.

Closing her eyes when his lips sank to her throat, Elizabeth lifted her chin, the pressure returning low in her hips. The bed creaked rhythmically in time, the round brass balls tipping its corners agitated anew with every silent rock of her knees in the air. She tightened her fingers, a shallow grunt escaping. Clearly encouraged, Philip exhaled into her neck, throwing on a burst of speed as her ankles began to squirm.

Unable to contain it any longer, she gave in, their chins bumping as she nudged him up. Muscles contracted, the vein in his forehead was prominent, pulse pounding under flushed skin. Breath coming in tight pants, she let arousal grow heavy in her eyes as she stared up at him, showing him what it was doing to her, the tingling pressure beginning to hum madly, any means of delaying its culmination evading her grasp.

A groan choked in her throat. Legs quaking violently on either side of his hips, she didn’t turn, let him take in her expression as control began to slip away. Brow deeply furrowed, his eyes were locked with hers, lips slack in a loose “o” as he watched her slowly spiral down.

Mouth falling open, she gripped his hands hard enough to draw pain, eyes automatically closing at the first pulse. Forcing them back to his, she let out a strangled whimper and held them steady, letting him watch as the wave swelled to its crest. Rocking at a tight, controlled pace, he didn’t blink, drinking in every detail.

Breathless once it passed, she let her head fall back on the pillow. Philip grunted, suddenly stiffening. Craning to reach, she tasted the hot skin of his throat, fingers raking down his back, curling into his hair and gripping his shoulders. Seconds passed, the tension bleeding from his muscles, hips finally stilling.

Pushing sweaty strands of hair off her face, she reached up to touch his mouth, tracing the soft outline of each lip. He flopped on the bed, still breathing hard, and raised an arm for her to join him. She scooted over to his side, head finding its usual spot on his chest. The thump of his heartbeat was tight and quick, torso quaking with quiet aftershocks. Smoothing down the hair tickling next to her cheek, she closed her eyes, just listening to him breathe.

A minute passed and then two, warm, luxurious drowsiness washing over her. The beginnings of a faint snore rumbling beneath her ear, she briefly indulged him, waiting until they began a slow crescendo to push up on one elbow.

He grunted. “Mmm-wake.”

His arm tightened, the protest the tiniest bit indignant. She smiled, fingers skirting lightly over his chest, forehead pressed to the warm, damp skin of his neck.

“No, you’re not.”

Yawning, Philip snuggled closer, head pillowed against hers. A hand settled clumsily in her hair, slowly beginning to stroke. It was a poorly kept secret he’d always liked touching it, easily distracted by the heavy swing of her ponytail when they sparred and quick to find an excuse to be the one to smooth captured handfuls of it out of Paige’s reach during a possessive stage in infanthood. Tentatively combing fingers through its length after they made love, there was hesitance in the way he first toyed with its ends, cautiously drifting higher when she offered no protest until he’d fanned it out over her shoulders in long waves.

Shivering as her pulse finally began to slow, she angled a toe towards the covers. A quiet laugh brushed her nose, fingers playing over the bones of her wrist.

“How can you _already_ be cold?”

She giggled and stretched out against him, tucking the blankets under one arm. Mouth twisted into a playful smirk, he rolled onto his side so they were facing, propping an arm under the pillow. She traced his chin with one fingertip, face starting to hurt from the effort not to smile.

“The other night when I got in late?” Yawning again, he captured her hand and kissed it, voice soft and sleepy. “You’d pulled all the covers over to your side and had them clutched so tight I couldn’t _claw_ them away.”

“I did _not_.” Laughing indignantly, she tried to poke him, waiting a few seconds before giving him a suspicious look. “Really?”

He wrinkled his nose and toyed with her fingers, failing to assume an expression that was truly grave.

“Most nights I don’t even _try_.” Tone implying it was all but hopeless, he raised an eyebrow. “It’s easier on both of us just to let you have them.”

Mouth carefully set so she wouldn’t smile, she overbalanced him onto the pillow and perched both hands on his chest. Philip grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners as he tried to lean up for a kiss. Inclining her chin just out of reach, she raised an eyebrow.

“Is that right?”

“Mm-hmm.” Smile lazy and comfortable, he tucked a curtain of hair behind one ear, fingers brushing warm against her cheek. “Your face gets perfectly smooth. Not upset. Not worried. Just . . . _you_. I could watch you like that all night.”

“You watch me _sleep_?” The question taking on a note of incredulity, she again failed to suppress the ridiculous squeakiness at its end, her less than total disapproval clearly noted when he grinned unabashedly and nodded, angling for another kiss.                     

“Mm-hmm.”

Giggling, she stared down at him, mouths drifting closer as if by some power outside her control. He kissed her softly and snuck both arms around her waist, lips inching down her neck. She closed her eyes. Breath hot against her skin, he paused to whisper in an overly hushed voice that could’ve belonged to one of Henry’s cartoon villains,

_“Drinking you in.”_

Squirming above him, Elizabeth ducked her chin, unable to keep from smiling.

_“Stop,”_ she whispered, not really meaning it.

His grip loosened, a final kiss tenderly placed in the hollow at the base of her throat. Sudden shyness creeping in, she rolled off him and curled back under his arm, the words that wanted to form twisting her stomach into knots.

“I never thought it could be like . . . _this_.” Licking her lips, she swallowed. “That it could be--”

She faltered and trailed off, fighting to define what it was that she wanted to say. Not offering anything in response, Philip trailed a hand slowly through her hair.

Words fell short of conveying the security of falling asleep spooned against him, the arm snug around her waist a constant, silent comfort. They failed to capture the tingling warmth in her chest at kisses left on the back of her neck, the lingering press of lips whispering without the need to speak how long he’d adored her. They couldn’t measure the dizzying lightness that flooded her with each soft, tightly held confession she’d never before found the courage to share, the weight that had for years locked her so tight she couldn’t breathe blissfully crumbling.

The newly formed entity neither dared define beyond _‘us’_ monopolizing every thought, there was the desperate need to grasp hold of what was happening between them, to understand it. Head clouded and heart pounding the moment they saw each other across a room, it was a terrifying, _freeing_ thing to look him fully in the eyes and let down every last barrier, to let him see her most naked fears, vulnerabilities long concealed and the raw giddiness that hurtled through her veins at the thought of _them_.

Elizabeth curled fingers in front of her lips, a word, not for the first time, forming uninvited in the back of her mind. Having never allowed it to pass her lips for anyone but Henry and Paige, to do so had never felt quite right, a sentiment she couldn’t bring herself to profess if not wholeheartedly.

_Love._

For the longest time written off as a meaningless indulgence for which she had neither the desire nor the luxury, loyalty to the Motherland had always burned far stronger in her veins than any sense of need or want for a man. The idea first forced into conscious consideration out of jealousy, only after her fears were assuaged had she come to reluctantly admit it hadn’t left. Unable to help but wonder if the tender shakiness bubbling in her chest and insuppressible thumping of her heart were what love was supposed to feel like all along, she found herself avoiding his eyes the moment things grew too quiet, afraid to question if he silently hoped they might one day say it to each other.

Shifting beside her, Philip rubbed her wrist for a minute, voice gentle when he finally spoke. “I should probably get dressed soon. Go pick up Henry.”

She nodded, secretly the tiniest bit relieved. “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

Philip was up before her the following morning, the bedroom empty. Greeted at the bathroom door by the sight of scattered towels and a razor left wet and dripping on the counter, she gritted her teeth and glared towards the hall, halfway tempted to stuff the daily source of annoyance into his closet if not for the certainty it would mold unnoticed on the floor for weeks. Yanking a wet towel off the floor, she marched it over to his nightstand and neatly dropped it on top of a newly arrived auto magazine he’d barely gotten the chance to leaf through.

He was at the kitchen table in a ratty t-shirt and his favorite jeans. Shaking her head, she went straight for the coffee, hardly surprised to note he’d wasted no time in twisting their directive to blend in into a convenient excuse to dress like a self-indulgent American teenager. Glancing up, Philip flipped a page in the paper and turned back to Paige and her bottle.

Pouring herself coffee, she took a sip. “How much has she had?”

“Couple ounces so far.” The answer was delivered in monotone, the conversation they had half a dozen times a day having long grown routine. “Slowing down a little.”

Jaw set, she drummed fingers on the counter. Philip set down Paige’s bottle and draped a clean towel over one shoulder, propping her up to burp her.

Waiting a minute, Elizabeth took a breath.

“Can you _please_ remember to put the cap on the toothpaste?” She took the egg carton out of the fridge, annoyance bleeding into her tone. “And hang up your towel? I keep tripping over it in the mornings.”

He grunted. “Sorry.”

Clearly not meaning it, he reached for his coffee and continued jiggling Paige. Elizabeth lifted her chin and cracked the first egg, vowing to make his breakfast extra runny.

They ate in silence. Done first, she leaned over to clear the empty dishes.

“Did you remember to pick up diapers while you were out yesterday?”

He shoveled down a bite of eggs, not bothering to answer. Finishing the last of her coffee, Elizabeth set the cup in the dishwasher and gave him a pointed look.

“Fine. I’ll go. Don’t forget to feed her again at ten.”

She trudged down to the laundry room after the dishes were done, vision blurry and mind blank as she pulled yet another load from the dryer and began to silently fold sleepers and burp cloths, tiny shirts and thick, fluffy towels infused with the sickly sweet aroma of fabric softener. It was the same day after day, unchanging one week to the next, a never-ending series of trips to the grocery store for gas medicine and diapers, wiping Paige’s bottom clean only to powder it, coaxing formula into her tiny mouth only to have it promptly spit up all over her freshly changed shirt. None of it what she’d ever imagined herself doing.

Closing her eyes, Elizabeth leaned on the washing machine, clearing her head with a single shake. Weary by the time she’d showered and gotten Paige put down for her morning nap, she sank into the rocking chair next to her crib to watch the slow rise and fall of her back, a face she’d pictured every day since her birth clear and bright in her mind.

They’d passed along two unmarked cassette tapes, the second a year after the first. Permitted to send nothing back, she could only listen, the sound of the voice she would’ve known anywhere drawing a sudden rush of tears as she huddled alone on the laundry room floor while Philip was out for a run. The isolation at times unbearable, it was at once both broken and intensified by her mother’s quiet reassurance how deeply she’d missed her _Nadya_ , brief snippets of news from home vague enough to pass through the Centre’s screening unable to fill the void of knowing they would never see each other again.

Still staring at Paige, Elizabeth swallowed and wiped a hand under her eyes, wondering if the Centre had informed her mother she’d had a baby, if somewhere on the other side of the world she sat in their apartment imagining her rocking an infant daughter who shared her chin, her lips and her nose, and who smiled up at her while she gave her a bath in a small blue plastic tub filled with bubbles. Who squealed at Philip’s corny farm animal imitations as he sang songs from the children’s records on the shelf, who let her head droop trustingly in the soft crook of her arm while she finished a bottle, and who would never learn to speak a single word in Russian, never understand her grandmother’s voice as anything but a series of vague, foreign sounds. A child who was a part of her and yet not, who would grow up far away from the only thing that bled strength into her veins, never so much as suspecting the truth for the authenticity of the lies they would construct for her.

The next time she opened her eyes, sunlight streamed brightly around the edge of the curtains. Neck stiff and head aching, she rubbed her face and leaned over to make sure Paige was still asleep before carefully slipping from the room. Philip was nowhere to be found when she came downstairs, the house silent and still. Stifling a yawn, she shifted the basket of dirty clothes to one hip and fumbled for the laundry room door.

The darkroom light glowed low and red on the wall over the washer, the clotheslines hung with rows of freshly rinsed prints. Jerking up from the fixer tray, Philip turned over one shoulder, face screwed and angry.

“What are you _doing_?”

Gaze having drifted to the closest photograph out of habit, she averted it the moment the image came into focus, understanding coming too late at the unmistakable positioning of two figures on a bed in an unfamiliar room. She shook her head, backing away.

“I was . . . laundry. I thought you were at the--”

_“Get out.”_

Hurling the tongs at the wall, he yanked the door shut. Elizabeth set her jaw when Paige began to cry upstairs, seething for all of two seconds before flinging the laundry basket at the closed door.

They avoided each other most of the day. Leaving for a run shortly after lunch, he didn’t return until mid-afternoon, pausing to gulp down two glasses of water at the kitchen sink before going upstairs. She didn’t say anything when he came back down after a shower, continuing to chop vegetables for dinner while he bent to get Paige out of her playpen.

_“There she is.”_

Whispering it in the adoring sing-song that never required more than a sentence to become tedious, he spun her in a slow circle, grinning foolishly when she gurgled and reached for his nose. He kissed each cheek and the top of her head, bouncing her over to the counter with the furtive, whispered suggestion they _watch Mommy cook_. Ignoring him, she didn’t turn. Standing annoyingly close, he leaned over to steal a green bean out of the bowl and gave it to Paige to examine.

Elizabeth frowned. “She can’t--”

“I know.” His voice was softer, the anger that had been there before gone. “I’m just letting her look at it.”

She dumped the rest of the beans in a pot. Watching her for a moment, Philip pushed away from the counter and returned Paige to her playpen. Going to the fridge, he pulled open the door.

“Beer?”

She didn’t answer. Leaning against the island, he popped off the cap and took a long swallow, just waiting. Closing her eyes, Elizabeth pushed her hair back.

“The buzzer on the dryer wakes her up. I’ve been keeping the door closed when she’s trying to nap.”

He took another swig and slowly rotated the bottle. Lowering her head, she braced both hands on the sink.

“You can’t keep letting it get to you.” Waiting a moment, Elizabeth was careful to keep her voice even. “You did what you had to. That’s all.”

He didn’t answer right away, knuckles white where he gripped the beer bottle. “Yeah, well. It’s not _quite_ that simple.”

“It has to be.” Turning on him, she shook her head. “Half the nights I get up to feed Paige and you’re already sitting there in her room, watching her while she sleeps.” She paused, looking down. “You’re distracted . . . unfocused. You can’t keep going on this way. It’s only going to lead to mista--”

“Yeah, I get it,” he interrupted, pushing away from the counter.

She stared at his back. “It’s why we were sent here. To complete a mission.” Watching his shoulders slump, she took a breath. “They were orders. Don’t make it into more than what it was.”

For a long moment, silence descended over the kitchen, Philip’s face lined with something she couldn’t hope to read as he shook his head and slowly turned away.

 

* * *

 

Taking a drag on her cigarette, Elizabeth made a quick check of the street. She flicked off the ash and adjusted her stocking cap, peering through a crack in the restaurant’s faded white curtains at a couple seated near the back.

Older and balding, the man looked less like a scientist assigned to one of the most classified U.S. defense projects and more like someone she would’ve pegged as the mail carrier, the fussy way he ladled soup into his spoon tiring to watch after only a few minutes. He wasted no time in tucking an arm across his wife’s seat as soon as her coat was settled, both of them huddled together on the same side of the table like two birds perched on the power line on a cold winter’s day

Taking another drag, she scanned the street a final time as Philip shut the hood and picked up his tool kit. Shoulders hunched, he rounded the corner, a quick cough into one fist signaling the all clear. Elizabeth dropped the cigarette and ground it out under one toe, pushing away from the stair rail. Sticking both hands in her pockets, she headed north towards the far end of the block.

He was out of his coveralls by the time she got to the car, wig and mustache already stashed in the duffel in back. Closing the door, she pulled off her hat.

“There’s a spot half a block down.” Nodding, she turned to check behind them. “On the other side of the street.”

He pulled up to the curb and shut off the engine. “How much longer?”

“They were having dessert.” Making a final visual sweep of the sidewalk, she settled back in the seat. “Practically _feeding_ it to each other. Five minutes, ten at the outside.” She stuffed both hands in her pockets, shivering in the cold car. “Everything go okay?”

“Yeah.” Philip checked his watch, offering nothing else as they stared down at the end of the block.

Eyes drifting to the hand resting against his leg, Elizabeth rubbed her bottom lip, after a moment sliding over a few inches to reach for it. Allowing their fingers to lace, he briefly glanced her way, but said nothing.

She narrowed her eyes, not missing the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “What?”

Shrugging, he made a face.

“C’mon, what?”

“It doesn’t feel a little weird to you?” He didn’t turn, still watching the street. “Sitting here holding hands while we wait to blow something up?”

Not answering, she waited a beat before extracting her fingers. A truck drove by, the red glow of brake lights filling the car. Philip took a breath, voice low.

“Look, I didn’t mean--”

“You should check over Henry’s math homework when you get back. He’s having trouble with fractions again.”

Shaking his head, he quietly exhaled.

She continued without looking at him, craning to see around a dark van. “Circle the ones he missed and he can redo them at breakfast.” Pulling her jacket tighter, she stuck her hands back in her pockets.

“They need to straighten things out at the Centre.” He glanced her way. “Ordering hits and countermanding them?”

“There they are.” She frowned as the couple from the restaurant hurried down the sidewalk, again huddled close together as he bent to open her door. “Thirty years of marriage and they’re still holding hands.” She paused, nodding when Philip turned to study her profile. “That’s sweet.”

Ignoring her pointed look, he shook his head. “ _Top-level_ scientists working on a program to save this country from nuclear weapons and they don’t have security. Can you explain that?”

She watched them for a moment, the answer thoughtful. “They feel safe here.”

Waiting until she met his eyes, he pulled up the antenna on the detonator.

_“Not for much longer.”_

Shaking her head, she turned back to the street. They sat in silence as the engine gave two halfhearted grumbles, watching the elderly man shake a fist before climbing from the driver’s seat to check under the hood.

“Oh no, car won’t start.” Eyes never leaving the street, Philip lifted the detonator, murmuring under his breath, “That’s right.”

Slamming the hood down, the man hurried to the far side of the car to yank open his wife’s door.

“Get outta the car!”

Carefully timing the blast so they were safely away, Philip triggered the detonator. The explosion and resulting ball of fire were impressive for the minimal collateral damage caused, car alarms immediately blaring on both sides of the street. Clearing his throat, he started the ignition.

“Well, if that doesn’t get the U.S. government to watch its scientists’ backs, I don’t know what will.” Shoulders returning to an angle closer to normal once they were a block away, he glanced over. “You’re meeting her at nine?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to drop you off?”

She shrugged, not turning. “It’s not far from the garage. I’ll walk.”

Philip was silent for a minute. “We should try to get a feel for what’s going on. Putting us out there just because some people back in Moscow couldn’t make up their minds? Things get outta hand, _we’re_ the ones they’re gonna go bad for.”

“I’ll ask her.” Propping an arm on the door, Elizabeth ran a hand through her hair. “Don’t forget Henry’s math.”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Before . . . I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s fine.”

He pulled into the garage, circling until they came to where the Oldsmobile was waiting on the fourth floor. Putting the car in park, he looked down.

“It’s easier not to start,” pausing, he fingered the car keys, “ _thinking_ like that when we’re working.” He took a breath, slowly nodding. “I get you in my head and I can’t concentrate on anything else.”

A conciliatory smile forming more at the sight of the vein rising miserably in his forehead than the words themselves, she narrowed her eyes and pushed her hair behind one ear. Frowning a little, he leaned across the seat.

“We okay?” He whispered it, mouth inching closer to hers, clearly hoping to get out of any further _talking_.

She fitted both arms around his neck. Their noses brushed, lips making contact.

“Mm-hmm.”

Hands warm underneath her jacket, he gave her waist a squeeze. “You want me to wait up?”

Smile widening, she kissed him again. “Maybe.”

He grinned against her lips, whispering, “Yeah?”

She touched his chin.                        

“Yeah.”

A dimple tugging at one cheek, he squeezed her fingers. “Thought I might stop at the Burger Shack on the way back, pick up a chocolate malt. You want one?”

Wrinkling her nose, she shook her head. “This late? You’ll make yourself sick.”

He narrowed his eyes, the whisper that followed low and teasingly seductive. _“Vanilla?”_

“I’ll see you at home.” Giggling, she gave his shoulder a push, pulling her jacket tighter as she reached for the door.

 

* * *

 

The following day was a Monday. Relieved to have the house to herself, she couldn’t help but frown when keys jingled in the front door just after four. Setting her jaw, she turned a page in the brightly-colored picture book in her lap, shifting Paige when she flailed for it. Philip shut the closet door and poked his head into the living room, spoiling any plans she might’ve had of hiding out for an extra minute or two.

“How’re my girls?”

Grinning down at an obviously delighted Paige as he crooned it, she still bristled at the choice of words. Rising from the couch, Elizabeth pushed Paige into his hands and brushed her hair over one shoulder.

“You’re home early.”

She said it without smiling, tone lacking in inflection just enough to hint it wasn’t a good thing. He started to speak and stopped, turning to watch as she took things out of the fridge.

“Meeting’s set for tonight.” Wandering over to the counter with Paige, he let her toy with one of his fingers. “We can get an update back to the Centre, find out what exactly they’re after.”

Not looking at him, Elizabeth unwrapped a package of chicken breasts.

“Thought I might take Paige to the park before dinner.”

She shrugged. “Fine.”

He studied her profile, making no move to leave. “Saw on my run yesterday they had some baby ducks down by that little pond. Thought she might like seeing them.” Pausing, he flashed a half-smile her way. “Wanna come?”

Dropping the plastic wrap in the trash, she held his gaze just long enough.

“No.”

Dinner was quiet, the clearing of plates even more so. Taking Paige upstairs for her bath, she carefully filled the washtub and set it up on the counter, laying out towels and the tall, skinny bottle of yellow shampoo before testing the water on the inside of her wrist. Lifting her gently, she set her in the tub, head cradled over her arm.

“There you go.”

Smiling as she said it, the knot in her chest slowly began to soften when Paige let out a delighted gurgle, legs kicking happily as she sponged warm water over her tummy. She’d always loved bath time, lips parted in a large, gummy smile, tiny squeals and coos issued just for her as she wriggled in the soapy water.

Elizabeth squirted a few drops of shampoo onto the washcloth and carefully massaged them into her hair, wrinkling her nose when Paige squirmed again and splashed an arm into the tub. Picking up the plastic cup, she carefully poured clear water over the back of her head, the suds rinsing away as a tiny foot nudged lightly against her arm. A lump forming in her throat, Elizabeth stared down at her.

There were a lifetime of questions she’d never gotten to ask, never _known_ to ask, blindly fumbling her way through diapers, feedings and a first horrible cold that kept her and Philip up two nights straight, pacing as they waited for the fever to go down, Paige’s pained cries only growing more pitiful at the rude intrusion of a cold thermometer. In that weak moment wishing her mother were there with her sure hands and voice that never showed fear, she could only close her eyes and press one hand over her mouth, left to wonder if she’d ever felt trapped, been scared. If she’d ever slowly circled a quiet room drinking in the scent of her hair and felt a lump in her throat at the warm weight of her in her arms. Whether she’d once watched her smile at the father who hadn’t lived long enough for her to really know him, if he’d hidden behind blankets and popped out making funny faces just as Philip did with Paige, if they’d once bathed her together or rocked her back to sleep on cold, rainy nights, murmuring the soft Russian lullabies she would never be able to pass on.

Carefully lifting Paige from the tub, she wrapped her in a thick, fluffy towel before she could get cold, frowning as she looked around the countertop for her sleeper.

_“Shit.”_

She whispered it under her breath, seconds of resignation passing before she reluctantly lifted her head and leaned towards the door.

“Philip?”

She closed her eyes when footsteps sounded on the stairs mere seconds later, almost able to picture him vaulting up in delight at having been summoned. Not looking up at the flash of dark, curly hair in the mirror, she kept her voice low, still drying Paige.

“I forgot to take the load out of the dryer.” Extending an elbow before he could use the excuse to get too close, she reached for the bottle of lotion. “Can you get her sleeper?”

“The one with the bunnies on it?” Halfway out the door, he stuck his head in.

She glanced back, nodding. “Yeah.”

He returned with it a minute later, setting it next to the clean diaper before going to empty the washtub. Rinsing it out, he tipped it on its side to drain and came back over to the counter, propping himself on both elbows where Paige could see him better. Not saying anything, Elizabeth finished rubbing lotion into her arms and legs.

“She’s getting so big.” Smiling, Philip shook his head. “You remember the day we brought her home from the hospital how she could fit on the lower part of my arm?”

He crooked a hand to stroke the edge of her hairline, a soft, faraway grin forming as he leaned down to kiss her fingers.

“Daddy loves you.”

Elizabeth powdered her bottom and put on a fresh diaper. Suddenly fidgety, Philip swallowed.

“I’m sorry for before.”

Not reacting right away, she finished smoothing her sleeper and took a breath, careful to keep her voice neutral. “It’s fine.”

He toyed with Paige’s hand until she latched onto his finger.

“Hard to keep it separate sometimes, you know?” Pausing, he shrugged. “What we do out there and . . . this.”

Studying his profile, she looked away before their eyes could meet, something in the way he’d said it setting her on edge. She cleared her throat and picked up Paige.

“I’ll put her to bed.” She raised an eyebrow. “Where’s the meet?”

“Outside that warehouse in Arlington.” Flashing her a quick smile, he bent to kiss the top of Paige’s head. “Nighty-night.”

She waited until he was gone to take her back to her room, bobbing her softly as they made their way down the hall. Yawning, Paige curled fingers into a fist and relaxed them, slowly nodding off. Staring down at her for a moment, Elizabeth tucked her up against her neck, drinking in the soft, perfect scent of baby powder and fresh shampoo as she slowly rocked her back and forth.

Closing her eyes, she pressed her lips just above Paige’s temple, murmuring a whisper only for her.

“I love you.”

 

* * *

 

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t pause or slow down. Didn’t raise a hand to cover her mouth or turn to look back at the car, unwilling to give Claudia the satisfaction of seeing her upset.

She did what they’d been trained to do. Not react. Not give anything away. Keep a constant bearing on her surroundings. Check blind spots at corners and street crossings. She boarded the bus without so much as flinching. Dropped change into the coin box. Took a seat near the back.

Somewhere halfway back to Falls Church she realized her cheeks were cold. Wet. That tears had formed without her notice, drying in stiff, grainy streaks along her nose all the way to her chin. Fingers trembling, she dragged the back of one hand under her eyes, breath coming in silent, shallow pants. Only once a woman in the adjacent seat turned to stare did it sink in how pathetic she must’ve looked, face twisted, mouth open, chest smashed by an invisible brick, a single sentence repeating itself on an endless loop in her mind.

_In New York, Philip was_ with _the woman we assigned him to . . ._

Claudia had paused halfway through its delivery, slowing to relish each second of the injury she was inflicting. Obvious personal satisfaction at having gotten in so clean a punch dripped in the smoothness of her voice, vindictiveness thinly masked under the guise of _camaraderie_.

Frozen stiffly in place, she stared out at the dark streets flashing by, trying not to picture it, unable to stop the sudden burning in her nose at the thought of someone else’s arms wrapped around his neck, someone else’s body spooned warm in his embrace as he nuzzled the back of her neck, every adoring whisper that had caused her heart to race offered in another ear, lips that weren't hers crushed soft and pliant under the heat of his mouth as they began to slowly make love.

The image suffocated her in a rush, fresh tears streaking hot down both cheeks, a sudden turn towards the window not quick enough to hide them. Chest squeezed so tight she couldn’t breathe, Elizabeth covered her mouth with one hand, heart pounding with anvil-like force. Closing her eyes, she swiped her face clear and lifted her chin, taking low, cool breaths until it all began to grow dull, iciness falling over her like a pale, unfeeling blanket as her breathing finally slowed.

The rest of the ride home passed in a fog, all the lights still on when she slipped in the door. Dropping her keys on the table with a muffled clink, she stared down at them until a brief wave of emotion passed.

She found him asleep on the couch with a magazine across his chest. Arms folded, his head was tilted to one side, mouth slack and face a blank, any truth she might’ve looked to find there indiscernible. Barely breathing, she stood over him.

Stirring, he blinked and shifted, brow creasing as he stretched his neck. “How long you been there?”

Eyes not leaving his, she forced her lips to move, the answer coming out thick and toneless as if she were underwater.

“Not long.”

“Mmm.” His eyes crinkled, mouth turning up into a tired smile. “Drinking me in?”

Hollowness returned to her chest, the sentiment that before had caused her stomach to give a tiny jump, to say such a thing ridiculous as it was somehow privately endearing in its awkwardness, irrevocably cheapened, just another line carefully drawn from his bag of tricks.

Nodding woodenly, she blinked.

“Right.”

Philip sat up and pushed the magazine aside. “Did, um,” pausing, he yawned, “did Grannie have anything to say about the contractor?”

Her heart began to beat faster, the beginnings of anger scoring cracks in the brittle layer of nothingness keeping her calm. Carefully masking it, she forced her lips into the closest thing she could manage to a smile.

“Yeah.”

“Did you restrain yourself from killing her?” The question picking up a note of sarcasm, he let the edge of his mouth twitch, clearly not particularly troubled by either outcome.

She kept her voice even, coldness once again settling over her like a thick fog. “I’m starting to get over the urge.”

“Why’s that?”

She watched concern creep into the angle of his brow, the question tainted with an edge of wariness, attempting to feel out what she knew without arousing suspicion, the deliberateness of it quashing any last tendrils of hope, providing irrefutable proof she’d been wrong ever to trust him.

“She’s just doing her job.” It was all she could do to stare back at him. “Like the rest of us.”

Frown deepening noticeably, he didn’t move. Lowering her gaze, Elizabeth slowly turned for the stairs.

In bed by the time he came up, she closed her eyes, waiting until the bathroom door shut to curl her knees up to her chest. The toilet flushed, the water running a few seconds later. Sliding under the covers, he snapped off the lamp and immediately scooted over to her side. She swallowed when a hand slid to the small of her back, the bed shifting as he joined her on her pillow.

“Everything okay?”

Voice soft behind her ear, it was the tenderness in it that bore straight through, slicing deeper into a fresh, swollen wound. A lump formed in her throat, nose beginning to burn.

He smoothed her hair, snuggling closer like he’d done every other night for weeks, the hand that snuck around her waist settling into its familiar crevice. “Does your head hurt again? I can get you an Aspirin--“

“No.”

Chin momentarily quivering, she steadied it, forcing herself to take one breath and then the next. Philip hesitated a minute, trying again.

“Before, in the car . . . sometimes it’s easier just to . . . to _be_ someone else for a little while. Not to think of it like you and me when we have to--"

“We should just go to sleep.” She said it quietly, all emotion purged from her voice, making no move to go after him when he silently rolled away.

The following day she got up. Set out boxes of cereal for breakfast and packed the kids’ lunches. Paid a visit to the weapons contact they’d been given in Baltimore and put together a dish of meatloaf after Philip left to work Martha for leads. Neatly sidestepped his every attempt to sidle close and avoided looking him in the eye, some measure of bitter satisfaction filling her as he grew quieter and more visibly on edge, the sickening void in her chest unrelenting with every breath she drew.

Her hand shook as she poured the tumbler of gin, little steadier after she’d downed half the glass, tears burning in her eyes as she watched light reflect off the plain gold band on her second to last finger.

There had been nothing in those first few seconds she could definitively pin against him. No arrogant lift to his chin. No self-assured smile as he reached to take her hand. Starting to lurch awkwardly across the room on Zhukov’s indication, he stopped at the warning look she gave him. Didn’t come any closer. Eyes raking appraisingly over her the second her head was turned, she could barely breathe for the churning in her gut, something more than curiosity evident in the way he couldn’t stop staring at her face, her body, sizing her up for purposes easy to imagine.

The cold pit of dread deepening with every passing second, it took all her strength to allow no reaction, what she’d signed up to do no longer quite so straightforward when given a name, a face, a man standing across the room looking her over like he couldn’t help but wonder what she looked like undressed. The most patriotic of missions for which she’d spent two years training, studying endless lists of vocabulary, drilling grammar structures until she could barely focus on the page and packing a heavy rifle up slick metal stairs in the freezing rain, loomed before her, the image gleaming in her mind suddenly draped with ominous shadows. She was to be married off to a man who couldn’t have been less what she’d pictured, with whom she would share a house and a bed and a tube of sugary American toothpaste, her body given over on orders from the Centre for him to impregnate with the pair of children that were standard protocol.

Reality setting in with a wave of nausea, there was something in his demeanor once they began to exchange information that only further fed her growing distrust. Seemingly empty as the grayest of winter skies, his face was a blank. Nothing she could get a read on. Nothing given away, eyes that were disconcerting in their intensity constantly studying her, seeking to collect information rather than take part in any honest exchange, any hint as to what he was really thinking masked by an easy manner and a smile intent on lowering her guard.

_Because you were thinking about me?_

The glass flinching momentarily in her hand, she screwed her eyes shut, hating the squeaky sound of her voice, how stupidly, _blindly_ she’d trusted him. Not turning when footsteps came up behind her, she raised the drink to her lips. He paused at the kitchen table, fingers drumming against one of the cloth placemats.

“So what’s up?”

The question slightly hoarse, the uncertainty in it caught her hard, as raw as it had been the night he answered the phone hundreds of miles away in New York, stilted responses she’d initially replayed guiltily in her mind only later revealed as an attempt to conceal the fact that he hadn’t been alone.

“I was thinking about . . . when we first met.” The words rough at the end, she took a breath and let it out.

It seemed an eternity before an answer came.

“Really?”

“Do you remember that?” The question came out softly and far too high. Eyes focused blankly ahead, she slowly rotated the glass.

Philip exhaled, slowly coming around the table.

“Course I remember.” The tension in his voice for a moment dissipating, she could hear a slight smile in it as he took a seat beside her on the couch. “I was surprised how pretty you were.”

She didn’t look at him, couldn’t, how easily the words rolled off his tongue only further weighting down the brick in her chest.

“Surprised?” Voice once again raw, she blinked, barely able to breathe.

“I was . . . I wasn’t surprised.” Faltering, he paused in mid-sentence. “I was . . . relieved, I guess.”

Still not looking up, she swallowed, the realization striking her as she stared at her glass that some part of her still clung to the fleeting hope it might not be true, just another of Claudia’s games meant to keep her off balance, the cold, deadened pressure in her gut shouting otherwise. Setting the tumbler down, she turned to face him.

“Grannie said you slept with Irina.”

His face froze. Not blinking, she didn’t budge an inch, watching naked, unfiltered shock bleed into his features, mouth coming slightly open, breathing tight and shallow, the seconds where he couldn’t hide the humiliation of being caught with his pants down somehow all the more terrible to witness.

“I asked you.” She said it slowly and evenly, not allowing her voice to waver even a little. “I asked you not to lie to me. And you told me to my _face_ that nothing happened.”

Having turned away, he swallowed, telltale tics beginning to creep in. His cheek twitched nervously, breathing picking up pace, chin bunching as he silently nodded.

“I’m sorry.” Finally meeting her eyes, he almost immediately looked down. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know what to say because--”

He paused, something in the far too neat way he did it only fueling the tightness growing in her chest. Facing her, he swallowed again, eyes glassy.

“--because I didn’t want to lose you.” He drew a ragged breath, chin crumpling. “I love you.”

The last thing she’d expected, the words hollowed her inside. Cracks formed uninvited in the layer of nothingness still allowing her to breathe, a fresh wave of hurt quick to follow. She closed her eyes, sick at the memory of ever having contemplated telling him as much, what had come from the most private, guarded place in her heart burning all the harder in light of every kiss, every tender nuzzle and adoring whisper as she woke up, all of it done in full knowledge of the lie he was working to conceal, as empty and calculated as something he might’ve used on _Martha_.

Heart suddenly pounding, she narrowed her eyes. “Hmm.” She turned away and shook her head. “Love, hmm.”

“I made a terrible mistake. A _terrible_ mistake.” Voice strained, he paused, clearly hoping she would say something in response. “And so many things have gone wrong for us.”

Fury clawed through her chest, the blatant attempt to minimize what he’d done filling her with renewed rage. Refusing to look at him, she focused on a point on the far wall, chin angled sharply as she fought to keep from giving him the reaction he wanted.

Philip took a breath, the words halting. “Can we please just . . . try and start over--?”

“No.” She turned, neatly cutting him off. “We can’t.”

She watched the expression drain from his face, paler and weaker in that moment than she’d ever seen him. Not flinching, she continued.

“We can do our jobs. We can fulfill our mission, the reason we were brought together and sent to America, but we cannot do _this_.” Shaking inside from the anger, she fought to hold her voice steady. “We will _never_ do _this_.”

She held his gaze, for a brief second triumphant in seeing some fraction of the pain he’d caused her reflected back in his eyes. Face perfectly smooth, she rose from the couch, heart crushing itself into a tiny ball.

 

 


	9. Safe House

_“And in other news, tensions in Poland continue to rise following a series of Soviet military exercises--”_

Philip set down his beer, eyes flicking to the television. A low, fat lamp on the adjacent table faintly lit the room, the sky outside having remained unchangingly cold and gray as the day inched on. Perched on the floor across from him, Henry let his shoulders slump, voice picking up the beginnings of a whine.

“ _Dad_ , it’s still your turn.”

“Sorry.” Grabbing the red dice, Philip gave them an absent shake, finally tuning out the news report once a commercial came on. He frowned down at the Risk board and wrinkled his nose at Henry. “Okay, buddy, it’s time. Kamchatka to Alaska.”

Groaning, Henry propped an elbow on the coffee table and grudgingly reached for the defending dice. They rolled. Rubbing the end of his nose, he matched up the red dice with his white.

“We each lose one.”

He announced it matter-of-factly, leaning across the board to gingerly pick off two plastic pieces, one yellow and one blue, and drop them into their respective containers. Pushing forward with the invasion until yellow armies had established a firm stronghold in Alberta and the Northwest Territory, Philip passed over the red dice and reached for his beer. Henry took a breath and got to his knees, lips twisting pensively as he examined the board.

Taking a swallow, Philip watched him count out a handful of three-pronged blue armies. Features smoothed in a silent, calculating expression he’d witnessed innumerable times on another face, Henry carefully positioned the pieces one at a time around the large, colorful map of the world, a miniature general whose bright teal shirt bore powdery orange smudges from an afternoon spent munching on Cheetos.

_Zhukov, he suspected, would’ve smiled at the sight._

“I’m trading in cards,” Henry announced, fingers tapping thoughtfully against their shiny plastic backing for a few seconds before he at last selected three and slipped them to the bottom of the deck.

“Uh-oh.” Downing the last of his beer, Philip raised an eyebrow and pushed off the couch.

Henry paused in deploying his armies, craning to look at him. “Is it almost time?”

“Almost.” He tossed the bottle in the trash. “Might be delayed if the game went long. You can switch it over if you--”

There was the sound of a brief scuffle, Henry wasting no time in launching himself at the remote. Hiding a smile, Philip flipped on the water, the expression fading when a door shut upstairs, the twist of the handle too quiet to be Paige. The low, dull ache that had filled his chest for a week returning in a rush, he swallowed and looked down, taking a second to clear his head before pushing away from the counter.

Seated cross-legged on the floor, Henry had his chin propped in both hands, brow furrowed as he studied the map. He drummed fingers against his cheek and glanced up, voice glum.

“I don’t have enough armies to attack.”

Watching him, Philip slowly nodded. “Sometimes you don’t.”

“So I just give up?” Leaning on one elbow, he fingered the small cluster of armies centered in Brazil, stacking them into a lopsided blue tower.

“Mmm . . . _no_ , not exactly.” Philip started to speak and then stopped, flashing him a quick smile. “It’s just like in chess, right? If there’s not a good move to make right then, sometimes all you can do is change tactics and reposition . . . wait to see if the board changes.”

Giving no sign he’d heard the answer, Henry let the tower of armies spill. He fingered one, after a moment sighing and scooting them back into a pile. Picking up the dice, he pointed to Alberta.

“Western United States to--”

His head shot up at the opening chords of a special broadcast announcement. Abandoning the game, he scrambled around the coffee table and plopped onto the couch. Philip smiled and reached into his pocket for a cold Hershey bar snuck fresh from the fridge. Snapping it in the middle, he bumped his elbow. Eyes barely leaving the TV, Henry accepted half.

_“We are just over fourteen hours away from the first launch of the space shuttle Columbia. This, coming on the twentieth anniversary of Russian astronaut Yuri Gagarin’s historic flight into space--”_

“Dad, who’s Yuri Gagarin?”

Not turning, Philip popped another bite. “He was the first astronaut in space.”

Henry frowned thoughtfully, the question muffled by a mouthful of chocolate. “The Russians went into space before us?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He waited a beat before glancing over, catching no sign of particular interest as Henry silently chewed. Listening in rapt wonder to a detailing of the launch procedures, he leaned over at the first commercial to grab his book off the floor. Philip hid a smile, watching him carefully wipe both hands on his pants before flipping to the glossy pages filled with close-up photographs of the shuttle under construction. Wiping his nose on one sleeve, Henry turned the page.

“You’ll wake me up, right?”

“It’s at _seven_.” Philip peered over at him and raised a dubious eyebrow. “That’s pretty early for you.”

“ _Dad_ , c’mon, _please_. We can’t miss it.”

Winking, he propped an arm across the back of the couch. Henry snapped his head around, voice hushed and hopeful.

“Maybe Mom’ll make chocolate chip pancakes.”

Throat growing tight, Philip continued staring at the TV.

“Maybe.”

Carefully checking behind them, Henry leaned closer and whispered, “Will _you_ ask her?”

A low, deadened pressure in his gut once again beginning to form, he didn’t turn from the screen. “Probably better wait and see what she has planned, dontcha think?”

Silent for a moment, Henry hugged both knees to his chest, chin bumping pensively. “Dad . . . do you think _I_ could be an astronaut?”

Flashing him a quick smile, Philip nodded and looked down. It was a question all but guaranteed one day to come, forming somewhere in the back of his mind on a rainy afternoon spent assembling model rockets at the kitchen table and lingering on the drive out far from the city on Henry’s ninth birthday to test out a shiny new telescope. Eyes wide with childish wonder on the clear, cool night, he stared up at an inky sky riddled with stars, the smooth paleness of his face reflecting an innocence that couldn’t help but draw a smile, the inkling of guilt that followed in its wake slower to fade.

“Thought you wanted to play goalie for the Caps.”

Henry shrugged, chin still propped on one knee. “Maybe I’ll do both,” he glanced over, hastily adding, “ _and_ be a travel agent.”

Not failing to note his voice lacked for the same enthusiasm at the end, Philip ruffled his hair, barely catching the creak at the bottom of the stairs. He looked up out of habit, almost missing the flash of a soft white sleeve in the doorway, trailing wisps of caramel hair vanishing in the space of a blink. The laundry room door opened. Boots tapped even and neat on the stairs, each step executed with military precision, giving away no sign of affectation or weakness as the knot in his gut pulled ever tighter.

Barely listening to the program Henry couldn’t tear himself away from, he swallowed, not seeing any of it, only the deadness in her eyes as she stood in the kitchen, staring back at him.

_Philip, we have to stop this._

Different from the anger that had been there before, fury blazing silently in the set of her jaw even as her voice and cheeks were smooth and tempered as an icy pane of glass, it was as if all emotion had been neatly excised. No feeling or hurt, pain or joy, everything that made her _Elizabeth_ and not just a weapon to be wielded by Moscow walled away somewhere beyond his ability to touch. History forcibly rewritten, as if every private smile and whispered affection traded over a shared pillow could be erased simply by deeming them inconsequential, no more vital to her than _him_.

A door closed down the hall. He straightened as footsteps approached, expression wiped clean by the time she breezed through the doorway. Her mouth was set in a neutral line, chin inclined just enough to suggest steadying it required conscious effort. Making no move to acknowledge his presence, she balanced an overflowing basket of laundry on one hip and raised an eyebrow at Henry.

“Is your social studies report done?”

_“Mom.”_ Craning around her to see the TV, he shook his head. “I’ll do it as soon as this is over. I _promise_.”

A quick flinch detectable in her jaw, she waited a moment before turning to him. Their eyes met for the first time that day, her lip curling a barely perceptible amount. Words unnecessary, she held his gaze, the silent order for him to follow delivered without ceremony as she brushed her hair back and strode from the room.

Not immediately reacting, he waited until she was gone to look down, the hole in his chest growing deeper by the second. Henry glanced over. Forcing a smile, he gave his shoulder a quick squeeze and pushed off the couch.

 

* * *

 

Much to a delight he made little effort to conceal, first had come _Dada_.

Followed not long after by _Mama_ , a string of quiet noises and nonsense babbles were soon supplemented by _hi,_ _bye_ , _moo_ , and something suspiciously close to a quack. The first few words provoking a rare smile of delight from Elizabeth despite the language in which they emerged, the latter two earned a dark look cast in his direction, one that required not a single syllable to inform him he’d spent too much time singing _‘Old MacDonald’_ in silly animal voices in an effort to make their baby laugh. Too pleased to care, he simply grinned and ignored it, both of them leaning over the railing of Paige’s crib in eager anticipation of what she would say next.

It was _baba_ that left them stumped. Immediately going downstairs to get her a bottle, Elizabeth frowned, perplexed, and picked her up when it was refused, walking her in a slow circle around the nursery to offer a ball, Mr. Bear, her blanket, the small stuffed bird from the bookshelf, a pacifier, and even the plastic yellow duck that bobbed cheerfully in the tub during her bath, failing to locate, much to the dismay of an increasingly frustrated and red-faced Paige, the elusive _baba_.

The mystery failing to reveal itself for the better part of a week, an answer finally came when he and Paige settled in the rocking chair in the corner before bed to read a goodnight story. She began to bounce in his lap, one small hand batting eagerly at the large smiling elephant waving from the pages of the book he’d chosen as she crowed his name in victory.

_Babar._

Pandora’s Box opened, it was a particular form of torture for which no training could’ve prepared him. Efforts to capture her attention with bright vocabulary books filled with smiling bears and cats quickly proved useless, an imperious finger and tearful wail quick to follow any attempts at distraction from the moment she realized she was understood, the former soon learning to point towards the lowest shelf of the bookcase where _‘Babar Comes to America’_ resided.

Perched in his lap while Elizabeth finished making dinner, she stuck one thumb in her mouth and used the index finger of the opposite hand to poke the pages along.

“You almost done?” Closing the oven, Elizabeth gave the green beans a stir and stuck a serving spoon in the bowl.

“Nearly.” He raised an eyebrow at her, continuing in an overly dramatic whisper, “Maybe Babar doesn’t make it this time.”

She tilted her head, the little half-grunt that followed the closest he usually got to a laugh. Catching one of Paige’s feet when she kicked his leg, he turned just in time to notice a telltale squirm, hands tugging at the front of her pants as she fidgeted in his lap.

_“Shit.”_

Hissing it under his breath, he dropped the book, grabbed Paige under the arms and swiftly maneuvered around the couch, racing down the hall towards the bathroom. She whined in protest when he put her on the small wooden potty seat with a baby fawn and bunny rabbit painted on the back, feet kicking stubbornly against the toilet bowl. Five minutes, two pairs of washed hands, and one star-shaped foil sticker for the paper chart taped to the wall later, they emerged. Babbling to herself, Paige scampered into the kitchen where she was promptly captured by Elizabeth and lifted into her highchair.

“Maybe that can be her next word.” Brushing her hair out of Paige’s reach with a practiced hand, she shot him a look.

“Up, up, up,” Paige chanted, straining to touch her ponytail.

“Sorry.”

He mumbled it, grabbing a beer out of the fridge as Elizabeth slid into her seat and turned to Paige with a bright smile.

“Did you go potty?”

They dished up baked chicken and macaroni in silence. Leaning over to the tray of Paige’s highchair, he cut her food into small pieces and got her settled with her special spoon and fork with fat plastic handles before spearing a piece of chicken for himself.

“You go out today?” Glancing across the table at Elizabeth, he took a bite.

She nodded and sipped from her glass. “To the park. We only stayed a little while. She doesn’t like the bathrooms there.”

Offering nothing further, she picked up her fork. Philip studied her face for a minute and turned back to his plate. Conversation lacking during meals even before Paige’s presence at the table had eliminated their work as a potential topic, it was clear staying home day after day supervising the joys of toilet training was beginning to wear on her. Toying with a green bean, Paige dropped it on her plate and squirmed in her highchair, trying unsuccessfully to get up.

“Mommy, _up_.”

“Paige, do you want some macaroni?” Leaning over with an encouraging smile, Elizabeth handed her the spoon and shot a worried look across the table at him. “She’s only had . . . _three_ bites, if that.”

“Mmm, yummy.” Making a funny face when Paige blinked at him, Philip stole a piece of macaroni off her plate and popped it in his mouth. “Will you take a bite for Daddy?”

_“No.”_ She shook her head with an instant pout, having no trouble enunciating the word that had quickly become a favorite. _“Up.”_

Ignoring the demand, Elizabeth reached for her fork. “How about some chicken, then, Paige? You _love_ chicken.”

Letting her handle it, he wolfed down a few bites, watching Paige squirm while casting a wary eye at the piece of chicken hovering ever closer. He grunted and picked up his beer.

“We should add in a page or two of our own. ‘ _Babar Eats His Dinner._ ’”

Immediately looking up, Paige clapped her hands and pushed the forkful of chicken away, face bursting into a delighted smile. “Baba!”

Propping an elbow on the table, he wrinkled his nose apologetically, able to guess he was in trouble even before Elizabeth glared.

“Sorry.”

They both glanced up when the phone rang. Setting his beer down, Philip pushed the chair back.

“I’ll get it.” He took another bite, chewing enthusiastically for Paige’s benefit. Crossing the kitchen, he picked up the phone. “Hello?”

There was no answer. A second passed, two pairs of fast taps followed by a single one, the line going dead immediately after. Emergency signal from Gabriel. _Check for orders on the wireless at the hour._ Not reacting, he stuck one finger in his ear and frowned, speaking a little louder as if he couldn’t hear.

“Hello?”

Having managed to get Paige momentarily interested in her macaroni noodles, Elizabeth turned. “Wrong number?”

The question casual, her eyes locked on his. He shrugged and sat down, smiling at Paige.

“Bad connection. They hung up.” He took a sip of beer. “Who knows . . . maybe they’ll call back?”

Careful not to give the appearance of rushing, they nonetheless concluded dinner earlier than usual, Elizabeth slipping into the bedroom to decode their orders while he gave Paige her bath. She came up behind him as he was putting her in her crib, bending over to kiss the soft, pale skin of her forehead.

“Nighty-night.”

Snapping off the light, he quietly shut the door and followed her to their bedroom. The equipment already put away, Elizabeth pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and handed it over.

“He needs to meet with us tonight. Both of us. Highest priority.”

“ _Both_ of us?” Quickly scanning the message, he read aloud, “U.S. military commanders instructed to increase readiness to respond to possible confrontation by the Soviet Union. Forces are ordered to go on high nuclear alert.” Frowning, he reread it silently, turning to her once he finished. “Was there anything else?”

“No. Just the meeting place and time like it says.” Biting the end of her thumb, she paced to the far side of the room. “Philip, this could be the prelude to . . . _war_. This could be--”

“Gabriel wants us there in an hour.” Checking his watch, he sank onto the bed to pull off his shoes. “Nine-thirty outside the Eisenhower Metro. We need to leave now if we’re gonna switch cars.”

“Yeah.” Elizabeth nodded to herself, hurrying over to the closet. “There’s no time to get a sitter. Thirty minutes there and back from the garage. We’ll be gone two hours, three tops. She’s been sleeping straight through most nights, probably won’t even--”

“Yeah, well, she didn’t the night before last.” Stripping off his shirt, he raised an eyebrow. “She starts wailing and one of us doesn’t come, the neighbors are gonna hear, figure out we aren’t there.”

Elizabeth rubbed her forehead, finally turning to face him. “That was closer to morning.” She folded her arms. “We’ll be back well before then.”

He took a breath. “Look--”

“It’s a risk, but it’s one we have to take.” Shrugging when he didn’t argue, she ran a hand through her hair. “We just have to start _training_ her that she’s not allowed to cry for us if she wakes up at night, that she can’t leave her room once she’s old enough to climb out of bed . . . punish her if she disobeys.”

He didn’t answer. Elizabeth sighed, tension forming at the corners of her mouth.

“I don’t . . . _want_ to do it any more than you do, but there’ll be nights the Centre needs both of us out there. Like it or not, we _have_ to do this.”

Nodding, he looked down.

“Yeah.”

She paused at the end of the bed, resting one hand on the frame. “You know they’re probably going to need you to--”

Exhaling, he pushed past her, slowing only when she grabbed his arm.

“ _Philip_ \--”

“He’s unstable. The last time we met he was,” turning halfway, he held two fingers an inch apart, “ _this_ close to snapping. Showed up half _drunk_ to our meeting. Balked when I told him what we wanted next time. _We’re_ at risk here too. One wrong move and we’re blown.”

“I know that.” Pausing, she shook her head. “But--”

She didn’t continue and didn’t need to, the argument one they’d waged countless times over the course of eighteen months. _Kestrel_ , a staffer at the Defense Department, by far the highest placed source they’d managed to establish, early intelligence reports had gained immediate attention back in Moscow, commendation for their success quickly followed by unrelenting pressure for more.

“I warned Gabriel two weeks ago the Centre has to give us more time to ease him into this. He was a risky target for recruitment in the first place, but they wouldn’t listen. If they want us to go through with this, then it _has_ to be done carefully. He’s not going to be the sort of source we can tap month after month. He’s a wreck over what we’re asking him to do as it is.”

She waited a moment, voice low. “He’s followed protocols so far.”

Philip closed his eyes. “Yeah, given us what we need in exchange for cash.” He grabbed a jacket from the closet. “We play this right and we could have a source inside the defense department for who knows _how_ long. But the Centre has to trust our judgment. _We’re_ the ones on the ground running him.”

Elizabeth rubbed her face with both hands. “Philip--”

“We give him a chance to burn through that last payout and suddenly he’s got a reason to _want_ to get us something even more valuable the next time.” Pausing, he nodded. “Turn the tables so we’re his best way out instead of the ones forcing his hand.”

Marching over to grab the message from where he’d dropped it on the bed, she held it out to him. “Read it again.”

He shook his head. “I know what it--”

She didn’t blink, jaw set. Sighing, he took it from her.

_U.S. military commanders instructed to increase readiness to respond to possible confrontation by the Soviet Union. Forces are ordered to go on high nuclear alert._

“If the Centre needs this now, you _have_ to push him to get it.” Elizabeth gestured with one hand, flattening it to a knife’s edge. “No matter what the risk. We don’t know the whole situation, Philip, how much time we’re going to have to carry this out.” She raised her eyes to his. “This could just be the beginning. _War_.”

The statement hung in the air between them, something in her expression clouding a second before she looked away. Philip squinted to clear his head, trying to push out the thought of Paige sleeping peacefully in the next room, dreaming of the next time they’d read _‘Babar.’_ He rubbed his face, voice lower.

“You signal Gregory about switching out the cars?”

Frowning, she nodded. “Yeah.” Clearing her throat, she hooked one thumb in her front pocket. “Yeah, he said his team’ll get it done. Probably next week sometime”

He took a breath and blew it out, checking his watch again.

“All right. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

The door to their bedroom was cracked, light spilling into the darkened hallway. Slowing at the top of the stairs, he paused, watching, waiting for some sign of movement from inside.

It came in flickers of color, barely discernible but familiar enough to squeeze the air from his chest. The rich, dark red of sheets once twisted in knotted fingers, framing cheeks flushed with arousal as she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The warm brown of crisply pressed slacks, something in the clean refinement of her dress ever reflecting an officer’s internal discipline and steely resolve whether she was carrying a sniper rifle to a rooftop or scrubbing the kitchen counter while suffering through a halting recitation of Paige’s French homework. The pale white of hands. Surer than his at braiding hair and detecting fevers, they screwed on silencers and pulled triggers with neither hesitation nor regret, catching doors before they could announce a conspicuous late night arrival and deftly cutting the crusts off peanut butter sandwiches before a picky toddler could protest.

She brushed past the bed. Profile briefly visible through the narrow slit in the door, she bent to pick up one of his shirts, hair spilling loose over her shoulder as she shook it out. Philip looked down, not missing the tension in her jaw or the pained curve of her mouth. Swallowing, he nudged open the door.

She didn’t turn when he entered, methodically balling socks and folding underwear for his drawer. Closing the door, he went around to the far side of the bed. Cheek giving a tight jerk, she otherwise didn’t react, eyes never leaving the laundry basket. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, just waiting.

All but pretending he wasn’t there, she laid out one of his sweaters, hesitating before picking up a pair of slacks. A moment passed, neither of them moving. Elizabeth rubbed the edge of her mouth, nodding slowly to herself as she spoke.

“So, how does Grannie know?”

Tone flat with forced indifference, the sudden stiffening in her posture and slight rawness tinging the final syllable left little question to what she was referring. He stared at his hands, slowly rotating the ring on his third finger.

“I don’t know.”

The admission factual, it couldn’t fairly be deemed anything less, a nagging twitch in his gut forming all the same.

It was what they were trained above all else to do, weeks upon months upon years of instruction serving merely to sharpen what for most came instinctually as drawing a breath. Taught to be the most convincing of liars, through years of practice they learned not so much to conceal the truth as to gently rub it, its shape shifting easily as a blob on a piece of paper tacked to an easel, scrawled in the messy finger paints Paige had once loved to play with downstairs in the kitchen wearing one of his old shirts as a smock. To color answers with only the sparest kernel of truth needed to make their telling believable, an art they drilled over and over until eventually conscious thought was no longer required.

They were trained to move as ghosts. To inhabit an ever-shifting world of wigs and unmarked cars, don heavy coats over thickly layered jackets and shapeless sweaters, shift posture and speech, and use glasses and contact lenses to mask every last detail down to the true color of their eyes. They were coached to give nothing away, no piece of information that could tip someone off, inadvertently form a link or expose a personal weakness, layer upon layer of deception blocking anyone from getting close enough to pick up on a telltale habit or trait, discover what made them feel or hurt or shake with rage, the most insignificant fragments of what lay inside themselves cloaked behind innumerable lies.

It was what they knew how to do, the sole instinct on which they walked the knife’s edge between capture and success. To avoid discovery, sweep away evidence and plant lies in its place, evading any force that tried to get too close, the idea of _marriage_ as alien and incompatible with what they’d been trained for as speaking in a language strictly forbidden for over twenty years. Their target shrouded by years of conditioning, they’d stabbed at it clumsily as toddlers armed with fat plastic forks, the bravery in her eyes haunting as she sat across from him in their kitchen, mouth miserably twisted, as she stood on a dark street on an icy night, shoulders trembling from cold and rage, as tears streamed down the edge of her nose in their bedroom, and as she lay in his embrace allowing him to watch her face contract in the most unguarded, baser expression of pleasure, flailing attempts to offer him the closest semblance she could to _truth_ crushed by his failure to do the same in the one moment it had mattered.

Still looking down, he swallowed, the thought of talking about it hemorrhaging something clotted deep in his chest.

“Irina, maybe.”

She glanced up in surprise, their eyes meeting for a split second before she looked away. Throat growing tight, he didn’t elaborate, both of them able to follow the statement through to its obvious conclusion.

That it had been a set-up from the start, the mission she’d been sent to carry out two-fold, not merely a routine test of loyalty to Moscow, but a calculated move to eliminate the threat of any they might’ve felt to each other, the absolute solidarity with which they’d stood together in the aftermath of the interrogation enough to draw a dangerous sort of attention from the Centre. The likelihood any part of her story could’ve been real diminishing with each new revelation, supposed plans to defect or an unnamed son he’d never known, he could only fight back a mixture of anger and shame at how completely he’d been fooled.

Philip took a careful breath, not allowing his eyes to stray from her face.

“Bielawski wouldn’t take the bait.”

Voice low, he said it carefully and without any hint of emotion. She swallowed, still frozen in place.

He exhaled quietly. “The bruises weren’t enough. She had to go down to the hospital . . . get examined--”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Elizabeth dug another of his shirts from the laundry basket and gave it a vicious shake, the answer too brusque to seem sincere. Pausing, he stared at his hands for the seconds it took to form the words.

“I let it get personal.”

He allowed it to sink in, the room devoid of any sound but the two of them breathing. Giving her a moment, he finally looked up.

Eyes glassy, she stared straight ahead, knuckles turning white where they gripped the laundry basket, lips pressed in a thin, pale line. Philip lowered his head, guilt threatening to rip a hole through his chest. She swiped fingers past her cheeks, waiting a minute before facing him.

“And that’s why we can’t,” she paused, voice gravelly, “let it be personal anymore. We have to be able to do our jobs without . . . _this_ getting in the way.”

He didn’t answer, the cavity in his chest slowly growing larger and duller. The telltale redness that for a week had lingered at the tip of her nose and around her eyes once again visible, it was obvious she’d been crying when he wasn’t there.

Lifting her chin, she held his gaze for a few seconds before looking down. She started to speak and stopped, jaw tensed.

“We should take some time apart.” Nodding to herself, she frowned as she said it, the words wavering briefly at the end. “Figure out where to go from here.”

Philip swallowed again, not reacting, some part of him having known it was coming.

Elizabeth pressed her lips together and ran a hand through her hair, after a moment clearing her throat. “We can tell the kids tonight at dinner. That you’ll be--”

She didn’t finish, the corners of her mouth sinking slightly as she trailed off. The room grew silent. Still staring at her profile, he watched her face grow perfectly still, chest barely moving with each tightly controlled breath.

_We were never married. We had an_ arrangement _. . . and it worked._

It was impossible to ignore any longer the truth that perhaps they hadn’t ever been, not in her eyes. The feigned indifference with which she could reframe it all in her head a lie neither of them believed, it was the irrepressible instinct to back away before a certain line could be crossed, tearful confessions one minute, desperate, taking kisses as likely as icy dismissal to follow in the next, leaving them trapped in an uncertain state of _zugzwang_ , unable to move forward as they were, to return to the way things had been before, impossible.

Marriage more than the act of coming together in heady moments of passion, of shared, whispered fears traded as they held hands in the dark, it was a commitment to be together that had never fully been made, the failure of a tenuous relationship neither could define all but inevitable. A choice denied them both from the start, she’d silently rebelled in its absence, rejecting him in favor of anyone else, a false _arrangement_ formed under orders and without either’s consent serving only to injure them both. There was no point in fighting it, in begging her to forgive his mistakes as he had hers, a marriage they couldn’t both unflinchingly profess to want every bit as false as the lies they told to the rest of the world, what they had together unable ever to be real if not a choice freely made.

He lowered his eyes.

“Yeah.”

He said it softly, offering nothing further. Fingers nervously rubbing at the edge of her lip, Elizabeth looked down.

“They’re going to be upset, but,” she paused, voice growing hoarse, “they’ll adjust.” Clearing her throat, she stuck one hand in her pocket. “It’s for the best.”

Chest so tight it ached, he didn’t answer. Elizabeth brushed her hair back and straightened, tone all business.

“So, dinner tonight?”

Taking the hardest breath of his life, he forced himself to slowly nod.

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

Their meetings took place in a run-down industrial neighborhood where little happened after a certain time of night, none of it good. Wearing tinted glasses and a dark, shaggy wig, he sat hunched in an old maroon Buick beat up enough to fit in, parked alongside an abandoned warehouse not far from the water.

As instructed, the car approached from the south, pulling up to the curb half a block behind him. The man that emerged was of medium height and thin build, shifty in posture and quick to throw obvious glances over one shoulder as he made the short walk to the car. Thumb brushing the edge of his mustache, he exhaled and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. The door opened, the telltale odor of alcohol drifting across the seat as it was quickly shut.

“You’re late.”

He said it quietly and without looking over.

“I . . . I couldn’t get away.” The response jerking between tense and volatile, he squeezed one hand into a fist. “ _Jesus_. You called my _house_. You can’t _ever_ do that again. If my wife had picked up--”

“I’ll keep this brief.” Voice low, his eyes flicked to the mirror, catching the gust of a piece of trash at the far end of the street. “We need information on any high level military operations or protocols that may have come through your office in the last week.”

There was a long pause, the sound of breathing growing louder in the next seat.

“I just, not _two weeks_ ago, I left you documents in the park by the--”

“We got them.” Careful to keep the words neutral, he didn’t turn. “You’ll be _well_ compensated for this, provided what you bring us is worthwhile, of course.”

Barking a guttural, humorless laugh, he wiped his mouth, hand shaking for a second before it was clenched into a fist.

“No. I . . . I can’t do this anymore. You got what you said you wanted, details on the cover up of the civilian massacre south of Da Nang. But that’s _it_. It ends here.”

He took a breath. “That isn’t how it works.”

“Look, pal, I’ll _tell_ you how this is gonna work. I want out.”

Letting it sit for a moment, he lit another cigarette.

“The information you’ve brought us has proven good so far.” Exhaling, he nodded. “Very good. If things continue to go well, we can talk about other options. But right now I need you to slow down. Think this through.”

He lowered his voice to a hiss, perspiration starting to show around his hairline despite the cold night. “I’ve given you enough already. _More_ than I had to. You know how many people have access to some of those files? Not enough. They’ll put me away for life if anyone finds out I’m the one who--”

“My people will make sure that doesn’t happen.” He checked the street again. “You’re right that you’ve been very valuable to us. As long as your information keeps proving useful, we have every reason to want to protect you.”

“No, I _can’t_ keep doing this.” Jamming a fist into the seat, he cursed under his breath. “I _won’t_. Just cut me out.”

Silence descended. He let it, not rushing, allowing him time to play out the repercussions in his mind. Waiting until he dug in his coat pocket for a flask, he took another drag on his cigarette and tapped it on the side of the ashtray.

“It’s really very simple. You get us what we need right now, take the cash, and everything goes back to normal. You go to work, go home at the end of the day. You and I don’t talk again for a very, _very_ long time.” He looked him in the eye. “This can be _so_ simple. Don’t make it any more complicated than it has to be.”

He grunted. “And what if I can’t get you anything else?”

Letting the silence drag out, he stared out towards the water in the distance.

“Refusing us would be unwise.” He raised the cigarette to his lips, took a drag, and lowered it. “We know where you live. Where you go to church on Sundays. What road your wife takes when she drives your kids to school. It would be very foolish to make the people I work for angry.”

Seconds of stunned silence were followed by a ragged intake of breath. Raking a hand through his hair, he again fumbled for the flask.

“I need you to listen very carefully.” Voice low, Philip leaned closer, something in his shift in posture having set off a silent alarm. “It doesn’t _have_ to be hard.”

“Go to hell.” Muttering it despondently, he took a swig, not looking over.

“Get us what we need and this can all be over.”

He didn’t answer, seconds stretching out, the tension growing ever more pointed as each waited for the other to make a move. His hand flinched. Tensing, Philip reached for the gun in his waistband, unable to draw it before he yanked the door handle and bolted.

_“Shit.”_

He threw open the door, quickly scanning recesses and alleyways before hurrying in pursuit, knowing there was no time, that he would be left all but exposed for the distance to the car. Easily faster even without the effects of the alcohol, he caught up just as the other man fumbled to get his key in the door.

“ _Don’t open it_.”

He jerked around, face contorting in fear when he saw the gun. “Don’t. Please don’t--”

“Get away from the car.” Taking a step back, he kept the gun trained on his chest. “Nice and slow. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Neither moved.

Heart pounding from the adrenaline, Philip cursed under his breath. “Back up. _Now_.”

“All right. You’re . . . you’re right.” The words shaky and much too fast, they were barely intelligible. “I’ll do it.”

Philip didn’t blink. “I’m not warning you again.”

“You said whoever you work for wants what I can get you.” Backing away from the car, he slowly lowered his hands. “I can still get it.”

Breathing hard, Philip stared back at him, struck by the sudden understanding it only ended one way. An informant they’d initially blackmailed into providing them intelligence, he hadn’t been duped under the guise of whispering to a lover, nor swayed into switching sides by the promise of money or allied political goals, but brought into their network by force. Even if he could be coerced into carrying out one more deal, or two, or three, he would sooner or later break from the stress, snapping like a brittle twig under pressure or slipping up one night as he downed drinks too fast to keep count, slurring out a confession in a drunken stupor.

His cooperation painfully simple to arrange, he would take whatever deal they offered, set up the meeting he would be forced by the Centre to go through with, all the signs of a set-up ignored, deemed an acceptable risk by those five thousand miles from any threat of repercussions. Elizabeth and Paige left alone at the house to wait night after night until the one where he would finally find himself surrounded by FBI agents, they would have no choice but to run when he didn’t come home, smuggled out of the country just in time for their front door to be kicked in, the ultimate failure of the mission they’d be sent to carry out paling beside the thought of never seeing either of them again.

_The long-term risk too high to justify, it was a mistake able to be corrected only at a cost._

“Just let me do it. I’ll do it.”

He didn’t move an inch, didn’t give himself time to think or feel, hands steady and gaze unflinching as he squeezed the trigger.

 

* * *

 

“Can I have another piece of fried chicken?” Barely having finished his first, Henry licked his fingers.

Watching him, Philip reached for his wine glass. Elizabeth set down her napkin and picked up the serving tongs, voice a bit too bright.

“Of course.”

“Me too.” Paige lifted her plate, smiling.

“Uh, white or dark meat?”

“White,” Henry piped up, rubbing his nose.

“Dark.” Paige smiled again, setting her plate down. “Thank you.”

Nibbling on a crispy piece of breading, Henry snuck a look in Elizabeth’s direction. “I wish we could have fried chicken _every_ week.”

“Twice a week.” Paige picked up her fork.

“Every _day_ ,” Henry finished. Eyes flicking hopefully to the right to see if the hint had been received, he quickly turned back to his plate.

Paige giggled and kicked him under the table. Flashing them a brief smile, Philip tugged his collar, throat growing tight. Elizabeth set down her wine.

“Your dad and I, um,” nodding as she spoke, she leaned closer, “want to talk to you guys about something.”

Momentarily hesitating, she looked over at him, frowning slightly when he didn’t jump in.

“Oh my god.” Fork still poised over her chicken, Paige wrinkled her nose. “You’re too _old_.”

“I’m too old for what?” Voice returning to normal, Elizabeth shook her head.

“To have a _baby_.” Glancing between them, Paige made a face, tone leaving no question what she thought of the idea. “Jen’s mom is _ancient_ and she’s pregnant and she’s light years younger than you.”

All the air vacating his chest in the space of a breath, Philip swallowed and stared down at the table, for a split second unable to contain the reaction.

“You’re having a baby?” The question plainly doubtful, Henry peered up at him.

“No, _no_.” Elizabeth held up both hands, the vein in her forehead beginning to rise. “Where did you get that idea?”

Paige waved her fork. “You just said--”

“No.”

He said it quietly. Finally picking up something was wrong, Paige stared at him, face growing pale and soft. Elizabeth cleared her throat.

“Dad is,” pausing, she looked between them, “going to be staying somewhere else for a little while.”

She pushed her hair behind one ear, slowly nodding. Paige fell silent. Unfazed, Henry propped his feet on the rungs of his chair and leaned forward.

“Are you going on a business trip?”

Their eyes met. Philip shook his head.

“No.”

“You’re separating?”

Fingering her fork, Paige whispered the question uncertainly, as if she hoped one of them would correct it. Elizabeth’s mouth came open, tension lining her face as she started to speak.

“Well we’re--no, we’re not, we’re not _separating_ , not exactly. We’re . . . it’s a little bit more like--”

Floundering, she looked down, struggling in a futile effort to come up with words that wouldn’t hurt them. Philip took a breath.

“Hitting the pause button.”

Staring back at him for only seconds, Paige set her jaw and glared at her plate.

“For how long?” Henry glanced between them.

“I don’t know.” They said it in unison.

Silence descended over the table, Henry’s expression fading as he stared at an uneaten pile of chicken.

“You’re kidding, right?” Voice taking on an angry edge, Paige raked her fork through her mashed potatoes, smashing them flat against the plate. “I mean, this is a joke, isn’t it?”

Uncertainty, for the briefest moment creeping in, Elizabeth lowered her eyes, mouth turning down slightly at the corners.

“Why?”

Henry blurted it without warning, the question naked and painful in its innocence. Elizabeth flashed him a quick smile.

“Your dad and I have . . . you know, we’ve been fighting a lot--”

“You _always_ fight a lot.” Lips beginning to tremble, Paige shook her head, the words tightly clipped.

“Too much.”

“Then _stop_.”

Frowning first at him, she glared accusingly across the table at Elizabeth. He answered softly.

“We can’t.”

“When Henry and I fight, you tell us to stop.” Her voice shook, barely controlled, fork angrily stirring up clumps of mashed potatoes again. “If we can, why can’t you?”

Knuckles pressed to her lips, Elizabeth nodded and turned to him. He cleared his throat, glancing over at Paige.

“I don’t know.”

Silently seething, she refused to look at him.

“The important thing is,” Elizabeth paused, “other than the fact that we love you so very much, is that Dad and I need some . . . _time_ to figure things out.”

Hand finding his cheek, Henry propped an elbow on the table, voice soft and uncertain.

“Do you guys not love each other anymore?”

His eyes moved to Elizabeth, Paige’s chin beginning to quiver as she turned to him. The table fell silent, both of them waiting for an answer.

He swallowed, the disbelief in the question only twisting the knife. There had never been a need to say as much in front of them, what they didn’t know to doubt innocently assumed. An act put on for years in the absence of passion, romance and sometimes even in the face of outright resentment, it had been played so convincingly as to render the truth all the more impossible to accept.

“It’s . . . it’s complicated.”

Tilting his head, he said it gently, watching with growing concern as Henry studied his plate, eyes large and glassy.

Reaching for his hand, Elizabeth offered a sympathetic smile. “And when you’re grown up, you’ll understand--”

“Bull- _shit_.”

“Paige.”

He frowned, voice holding a warning. Her jaw was set, chin quivering. Not looking at him, she turned to Elizabeth, the words shaky and tearful.

“You don’t just stop _loving_ someone.”

Clearly taken aback, Elizabeth faltered, mouth jerking at the corners, breathing beginning to pick up in the seconds before Henry spoke.

“Are you gonna stop loving us?”

“ _No._ ” Shaking her head, she gestured emphatically with both hands. “That is, I mean it’s _impossible_. That would never happen.”

_“Never,”_ Philip reassured him, their eyes meeting only briefly before Henry once again lowered his.

“This is so stupid.” Angrily poking at her vegetables, Paige muttered it, ignoring both him and Henry in favor of glaring across the table at its fourth occupant. “This is _your_ fault. You’re always giving Dad a rough time.”

Caught off guard, Elizabeth faltered, mouth coming open as she stared back at Paige.

“It’s not mom’s fault.”

Careful to keep his voice low, he shook his head. Paige turned to him, face splotchy and eyes filling with tears.

“Why are you defending her?”

“I’m not, but,” he took a breath, the nuance of it something they had no basis on which to comprehend, an unspoken fidelity to each other and their partnership that came before all else, “this is . . . _our_ decision. We both made this decision.”

Paige turned from Elizabeth to him, lip pouted and braids draped over both shoulders just like she’d worn them when she was little, fighting with Henry over who got to climb in his lap while they cuddled in pajamas and watched TV specials on Sunday nights. Giving him one last look of absolute betrayal, she pushed away from the table.

Henry’s mouth had begun to waver by the time footsteps stomped angrily up the stairs, fidgety movements bleeding away until he sat motionless. Elizabeth peered over at him, flashing a nervous smile he didn’t return, and propped an elbow on the table in an awkward mirror image of Henry’s.

The table miserably still, no one moved, quiet steady ticks from the clock on the wall seeming to pound like nails. Drumming fingers against her cheek, Elizabeth finally shifted and reached for his hand.

“Henry--”

He shrank back before she could touch him, breath coming in miserable heaves. Staring at the table, he rubbed a wrist past his eyes.

“Can I be excused?” He whispered it, lips barely moving.

“Sure.”

Elizabeth waited until he was gone to look down. Mouth thinly set, her shoulders rested at a stiff angle, fighting not to rise or sink an inch. She closed her eyes, after a moment drawing a resigned breath.

“It’s for the best.”

He didn’t respond, hand unmoving on the table. The silence stretching out, he reached for his napkin.

“I’ll go talk to them.” Careful to keep his voice neutral, he glanced her way. “Finish packing.”

Eyes once again growing distant, Elizabeth nodded without looking up, still as a statue seated alone at the table as he quietly exited the room.

 

* * *

 

It was sometime well after midnight when he noticed footsteps coming down the stairs. A short, heavy glass rotated slowly in his hand, warm amber liquid swirling along its sides in the faint light coming in through the kitchen window.

“Philip?”

His name was a whisper, surprised and a little uncertain. Bare feet padded closer, stopping at the edge of the table. He lifted the glass and took another drink.

“When did you get back?”

Shrugging, he set the glass down and ran his fingers along the sides. Reaching for the bottle, he poured another inch or so and set it back down, flinching at the thump when the table came up faster than expected.

Elizabeth made a sound in the back of her throat. “Think maybe you’ve had enough?”

Not answering, he slumped in the chair. Watching him for a few seconds, she appropriated the bottle and set it on the counter. He didn’t say anything. She slid into the adjacent seat and tucked her hair behind one ear, robe puddling softly at her elbows.

“What did Gabriel say?”

He grunted under his breath, still studying the glass. “Said the Centre wanted to know what happened.”

Elizabeth rubbed her face, not responding. At last she exhaled. “You did what you had to. They knew going in he was a risk to recruit.”

“Yeah, well.” He folded his arms, slowly rotating the glass. “They’re still gonna be pretty pissed.”

She didn’t say anything and didn’t need to, neither of them naïve to the reality of it. He took another sip, not looking at her. After a moment, she pushed her hair back and rubbed the edge of her mouth.

“It’s late. Paige is going to be awake in a few hours and you’ve been up two nights straight.”

Grunting again, he made no move to get up. Elizabeth closed her eyes.

“Philip--”

“He wanted out.” Swirling the drink, he took a breath. “Refused to do it.”

She didn’t answer right away, voice edgy when she finally spoke. “It’s done.”

The kitchen fell silent, neither of them moving. Philip shrugged and raised the scotch to his lips. Setting it down, he cleared his throat.

“I pushed him.” He stared into the glass. “Hard. Thought I could get him to come around if--”

“Don’t do this.” Running a tired hand through her hair, Elizabeth propped an elbow on the table. “There’s no point in beating yourself up. It’s over. All you’re doing now is--”

“He had a wife.” Throat growing tight, he shook his head. “Kids.”

Silent for a moment, she nodded.

“I know.”

The room growing quiet, he swallowed, squeezing the glass. “I . . . used it. Told him--”

He didn’t finish. Training dispassionately reducing tactics to a series of increasing psychological pressures, it had never hit home quite so potently as when seated across from a woman for whom he couldn’t deny genuinely caring, a marriage arranged merely for cover not negating the gratification derived from companionship and an increasingly comfortable familiarity, the bond that had formed between them no longer entirely a lie. Nor was it as straightforward to push from his mind all but the success or failure of any given assignment, to disregard all thoughts of the baby whose face popped unexpectedly into his head at all hours of the day, the sight of a large stuffed toy she would’ve reached out for in a store window or a dog at which she would’ve squealed while perched high on his shoulders during one of their walks to the park drawing a foolish, fatherly smile.

Pushing up from the table, Elizabeth came around to his chair. Her hands found the back of his neck, fingers working into the familiar spot she sometimes rubbed when they weren’t fighting and he complained of a headache. Swallowing, he closed his eyes, letting her coax the tension from his shoulders.

Taking a purposeful breath, she spoke.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Hands steady, she kept her voice soft. “You didn’t mean for it to happen this way. Sometimes things just . . . go wrong.”

He downed the last of the scotch, jaw tight as he lowered the empty glass.

“Yeah.”

Elizabeth smoothed his collar and came around the table, brow creasing as she folded her arms and nodded towards the stairs.

“C’mon. You’re gonna be a mess in the morning as it is. Let’s get some sleep.”

The words holding no particular note of sympathy, there was something in the way she said it that served to loosen the knot in his chest, her voice steady, reassuring in its lack of affectedness. That it was just another hurdle they would figure out a way to overcome, partners side by side in the morning as surely as they had been the day before. That despite the guilt that still lingered, a last look of abject terror numbly frozen in the back of his mind, she was the one person who saw him no differently, and never would.

Setting the glass down, he cleared his throat.

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

There was no sound from upstairs, not the thump and slide of small socked feet trying to find purchase on a slippery wooden floor, or the usual nightly squabbles over Henry making too much noise, Paige’s insistence she needed to study countered with the moaning accusation she’d been hogging the bathroom for an hour doing something with her hair. Greeted by a row of closed white doors in an empty hall, he walked up to Paige’s and gently rapped.

A pause ensued, followed by sniffling sounds. Quiet at first, there was the muffled wetness of a nose being blown. And then at last,

“Come in, Daddy.”

Guilt reaching in to claw something from his chest, he pushed it back and quietly opened the door. She was curled into a ball at the end of the bed, legs folded to her chest, chin propped on one knee, hair spilling out in a sad red curtain around her shoulders. Not looking up, she silently picked at Mr. Bear’s fur. Pushing aside the pile of freshly balled tissues littering the blankets, he took a seat at the edge of her bed. She grabbed another, eyes filling with tears.

Waiting in silence while she blotted her nose, he watched her face twist through several emotions before she finally raised red-rimmed eyes to his.

“When are you leaving?”

Tone laced both with accusation and a less than veiled attempt to provoke guilt, she folded her arms, feet scooting under the blankets as if she worried he might try to tickle them for old time’s sake.

Philip took a breath. “Tonight.”

She absorbed the information in silence. Chin puckering, she toyed with a corner of the comforter. “How long do you _think_ it’ll be for? A few days or--”

“I don’t know.”

She wiped her cheeks, mouth drooping as she fussed with one of Mr. Bear’s ears. “Is that ‘cause it’s really up to _Mom_?”

The question plainly tossed out as bait, she kept her eyes down, not daring to look at him. Letting it pass, he waited until her breathing quieted.

“It’s because we just don’t know right now.” Nodding slowly, he glanced across the room at the crooked row of swim team photographs stuck to her mirror. “Mom and I have to work this out between us, figure out how to fix things.”

“What if you can’t?” she blurted, eyes flooding with fresh tears. “What about me and Henry?”

Not giving her a chance to protest, he scooted closer and scooped her up, pulling her into his lap like she was once again five and bemoaning the unfairness of having a little brother with whom she could be expected to share things. Paige clung to him, sniffling.

“Mom and I love you.” Rocking her gently, he whispered it into her hair, kissing the top of her head. “So, _so_ much. More than anything in the whole entire world.”

“Then _stay_.”

Whimpering it, she wiped her nose on the back of one wrist. Philip didn’t answer, continuing to slowly rock. Sniffling again, she disentangled from him, rooting for the Kleenex. She blew her nose and gathered up the pile of tissues, dropping them in the waste bin.

“Why now?” Chest starting to heave, she steadied it, staring at him. “Why is now any different than before?”

Slowly nodding, he looked down, the truth bitter in its irony. That only in allowing feelings finally to have a name and a voice, to gain strength with each quiet confirmation they were shared after so many years of pretending, had they grown real enough to wound, ripping apart the comforting façade that was all she and Henry knew.

“What’s important is that your mother and I are always going to take care of you. _Always_.” Squeezing her shoulder, he bent to give her one more kiss and rose from the bed. “Nothing could ever change that.”

Clearly less than satisfied with the response, Paige shook her head, jaw set with a familiar stubbornness. Averting his eyes, he stepped into the hall, giving the next door over a soft knock.

It was adorned with the two pictures they’d decided were the rule, an artistic phase he’d gone through at eight unflaggingly nurtured up until the point various drawings, clippings from comic strips, and large, messy paintings threatened to take over every flat surface of the house, leaving them unable to locate the handle to the refrigerator to get out milk for cereal in the mornings. The first a large black and white bookmark depicting astronauts orbiting Earth, it had been a souvenir from what they’d explained away as one of many business trips, Henry’s face lighting up when he discovered it by his placemat the following day at breakfast. Below it was a messily scrawled sign declaring him the room’s rightful owner, the menacing drawing swimming in a circle around the paper’s border difficult to identify as tentacled space alien or fanged squid.

There was no sound from inside. Philip lowered his head, again rapping knuckles against the door frame.

“Hey, buddy, it’s me.” He gave it a few seconds. “Can I come in?”

Nothing. No scuffling or flicker of light under the door. Not the sharp clack of model cars angrily forced together in makeshift collisions or the choked sound of crying he didn’t want anyone to hear. A knot forming deep in his gut, Philip poked at the edge of the hand-drawn sign and took a breath, knocking again.

“Henry, please open up. I just wanna talk.”

Leaning against the jamb when an answer failed to come, he waited a beat before sliding to the floor. Propping his arms on both knees, he slumped against the wall.

_He’s like you._

Having become well-versed over the course of his first three years of fatherhood in the fine art of creating pigtails without yanking or leaving bumps, and of Saturday afternoons spent pouring imaginary tea for bears and dolls seated in a circle on the carpet, with Henry it was simply easy.

A first glimpse at the scrunched red face peeking up from beneath a pale blue hat in the hospital room so amusingly familiar that even Elizabeth shook her head as she passed him over, he was as complaisant an infant as Paige had tested all their efforts, sleeping through the night from early on and settling without protest in the crook of his arm to take a bottle during overtime in a match-up between Boston and the Toronto Maple Leafs in the 1972 playoffs as if he was already listening in right alongside him for the score.

The one who shrugged amenably in any debate over who was to be awarded which flavor of popsicle, he could be counted on not to tattle later if they stopped for coffee and a bag of fresh doughnuts on the way to school, would sit next to him on the couch for hours on a rainy Saturday while they watched TV and wolfed down pancakes in twin lakes of syrup, demands to know why they were still in pajamas halfway through the morning met with a shared wink and suppressed grin as Henry propped up his feet and leaned closer against his arm.

Philip took a long breath. “I love you so much.” Waiting for any sound from inside, he swallowed. “More than you’ll ever know.”

The house was silent as he finished packing, doors once again closed. Shouldering the duffel, he picked up his suitcase and slowly descended the stairs, surprised to find Elizabeth waiting at the bottom. Hands in her pockets, she stood motionless, head down, mouth frozen at the corners, staring blankly towards the door.

He slowed just below the landing, but didn’t pause, the decision made, anything further only drawing out the inevitable. Moving around her, he grabbed the car keys off the table.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow at the Beeman’s?”

She frowned and lifted her head, the sudden shift in weight awkward. “Are we really going to go to a _party_ together?”

Not quite facing her, he shook out the keys. “Stan’s work friends are gonna be there. I think we should be too.”

Their eyes met. Elizabeth nodded without speaking, the room growing very quiet. Dullness began to form deep in the center of his chest, small as a bead and empty enough to suck the breath from his lungs. Turning away before it could take hold, he reached for the door and forced his head to clear.

_Find someplace to stay for the night. Get a second car in the morning. Beeman’s at noon._

It was difficult to justify what made him look back, whether just as she felt compelled to wait by the door, some part of him couldn’t bear to step through it without looking into her eyes one final time, the woman next to whom he’d slept more nights than not for twenty years, every step they’d taken since leaving Moscow done so side by side, or perhaps the vain hope of catching some sign of sorrow or regret written in her features, that against all probability she might falter when faced with the reality of it, ask him not to go.

They stared at one another for a long moment, much as they had for the first time across another room many years before. His unspoken question answered when she offered nothing more, he turned, quietly stepping out the door.

 

 


	10. Only You

There was something in the deliberate way she pushed open the office’s outer door that always told him it was her, a quiet, uniform scrape too purposeful to be slowed followed by the neat release of the handle just as it closed in the jamb.

Barb’s arrival each morning was marked by the flustered shaking of keys. Brow furrowed, she flipped on the lights and edged around the desks mumbling reminders to herself about clients who would be stopping by first thing to pick up tickets or the need to jot down celery and chicken breasts on the shopping list stuffed in her purse, a nervous undercurrent punctuated by the worry Tiger and Pom-Pom would eat all the food she’d set out for the other cats. Stavos thrust open the door as if he were still hauling up nets on his father’s fishing boat somewhere off the coast of Greece, the inevitable curse that followed when the handle banged against the wall accompanied by a shifty glance in Barb’s direction, expectant of the frown of disapproval that even after ten years manning the front desks at _Dupont Circle Travel_ , he still moved around like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

Having mastered within the first week of leasing the office space the art of twisting the knob at a certain angle to eliminate any sound, he’d made only one attempt to demonstrate while Elizabeth waited behind him with a newly purchased box of ballpoint pens, a stack of file folders and a large paper sack of takeout from the restaurant just down the street. Flashing her a quick grin when the door swung open without so much as a creak, it was met with a look of obvious impatience, the silent swish of her ponytail as she brushed past him conveying quite clearly she wasn’t impressed.

Face wiped blank at the memory, he didn’t look up when the door shut. Not when Barb called out her name in greeting. Not when Stavos launched into a list of questions he’d managed to avoid on the phone approving flights for most of the half hour since arriving and not when she replied that she needed a minute, the sound of her voice through the office window coinciding with a quiet twisting in his gut.

The Xerox machine groaned to life with a series of clacks and a low, dull hum. It was followed by the familiar thump of her purse being set on the next desk, the wave of perfume that drifted over seconds later straining to pull the knot tighter. He held his breath until it dissipated, middle finger tapping evenly on the down arrow as he scrolled through a listing of available flights.

Moving around the office behind him, Elizabeth went to the file cabinet. There was a brief shuffling of papers. The rumble of the heavy drawer being pushed in, the thump when it closed causing neither to turn. He reached for his coffee, eyes not leaving the computer screen.

Growing very still, she quietly exhaled, an edgy tap of fingers on the back of her chair hinting what was coming. She crossed the room and shut the office door, switching on the small radio they kept by the wall.

Still gripping the coffee mug, Philip glanced up. She was leaning against the desk, face clouded, a telltale redness rimming her eyes. The sight of it sending the echo of something raw and ugly clawing through his chest, he quickly looked away, the burn slow to fade, a hot, pulsing anger pounding in his ears as he stared at the framed picture of the four of them on one corner of the desk, Henry and Paige beaming bright, impish smiles that had all but vanished in space of a week.

Starting to speak and then stopping, Elizabeth folded her arms, voice low.

“You heard anything from Grannie?”

He swallowed, pushing everything else to a back corner of his mind.

“No.” Pausing, he tapped a pen against the desk. “You?”

She shook her head.

“There was nothing from the Centre over the wireless.” Tucking her hair behind one ear, she cleared her throat. “You have a chance to check the drop site?”

He nodded, absently fiddling with the pen. “Yeah, on my way in. Nothing yet.”

Elizabeth rubbed her lip, brow beginning to furrow. “It was on the news last night--”

“Yeah, I saw.”

Tone marked by no particular sign of affectedness, he stared at the plant in the corner. Neither offered anything more, the vibrant, jovial hum of strings playing Mozart in the background unmatched as anything could’ve been to the deadness in the room.

Her fingers rapped nervously against the desk.

“It’s going to be harder now. For surveillance. For cars. We don’t know how much the FBI found out, what leads they may be onto.” She frowned, straightening a stack of file folders. “You’re meeting with Martha later?”

“Yeah.”

One hand came to rest at her hip. “It’s too big a risk to go back to any of our old contacts. We’ll have to start over from scratch. Figure something else out.”

He didn’t answer. Face briefly contracting before she cleared it, Elizabeth swallowed.

“The Centre will want to know what happened.”

Grunting, he looked down.

“Yeah.”

“They’re gonna be pissed, but,” she hesitated, mouth forming a thin line, “it was the right thing to do.”

Jaw slowly beginning to clench, Philip said nothing.

Elizabeth shook her head. “After everything he did for us--for _the cause_ \--he deserved that much. The Centre should understand--”

Chest so tight he could barely keep from snapping the pen in two, Philip sucked in a breath.

“So, we said six tonight, right?”

Cutting her off without so much as an inkling of the sympathy or agreement for which she was clearly fishing, he raised an eyebrow, tone emotionless.

“I’ll come over and pick the kids up for dinner?”

Their eyes met, a flash of hurt passing across her features. Neither moved, her cheeks growing still and very flat, mouth softening with something close to resignation, the silence that stretched out in its wake acknowledging unspoken agreement the subject wouldn’t be opened between them again.

“Yeah.” Rubbing her lip, she frowned. “Six is fine.”

Seconds passed, the crease in her forehead slowly deepening until at last she sighed and gripped the edge of the desk.

“Henry’s teacher called.”

Philip glanced up.

“Again?”

She nodded. “Last night after dinner. Said he’s still not doing any work in class. Just stares out the window. He took the math test she gave him yesterday and turned it in blank.”

Absorbing the information in silence, Philip stared across the room.

“How is he at home?”

Peering up at her profile when she failed to answer, he watched her mouth slowly sink at the corners, voice growing strained.

“Not good.” She closed her eyes. “This morning they were both--”

Abruptly cutting off, she took a breath.

“Paige hates me. She’s angry all the time. Won’t make her bed. Won’t take her bowl to the sink. Argues with me over what she can wear to school and then dawdles on purpose so we’ll be late . . . _anything_ I ask her to do starts a fight.”

Studying her face, he waited without responding.

“And Henry is just,” Elizabeth trailed off, lips pressed together as she blinked to clear her eyes, “fading away. He barely talks. Doesn’t come out of his room unless I make him.” She folded her arms. “Mrs. Kosta wants one of us to come in this afternoon. Meet with her.”

Fingering the pen, Philip slowly nodded.

“What time?”

Elizabeth swiped fingers past her cheeks, tucking back her hair. “Two-thirty. That’s when they have specials.”

The lull stretched out, music from the radio continuing unperturbed in the background. Philip cleared his throat.

“We should both be there, don’t you think?” Careful to keep the words neutral, he peered up at her.

Their eyes met. She quickly averted hers, brow furrowed.

“Yeah.” The answer more subdued than he’d expected, it was the tiniest bit uncertain. “No, you’re right.”

Face contracting through several emotions, she finally looked up, lips parted as if she wanted to say something more. He didn’t react, breathing slow and measured, holding her gaze for only a matter of seconds before slowly turning back to the desk.

 

* * *

 

In their line of work, _feeling_ came at an inevitable cost. The reality of what they were required to do at times far darker than the picture painted in the early stages of recruitment and training, guilt was an occupational hazard best avoided, one that gradually ate away from the inside if allowed a weakened crack to exploit, stealthy as a trickle of water slowly working its way into the most insignificant crevice until it built up the strength to split stone.

Zhukov had once advised that to try to do their jobs looking through emotion’s blurred lens was to stifle the senses, leaving them to stumble blind and reckless through actions that required absolute clarity in their execution, one misstep enough to cause the mistake that would be both their first and last.

Attachment of any sort brought with it an inherent risk, one obvious as it was left quietly undiscussed. It was during the winter of their second year that word of a first fallen comrade trickled back through channels. Lost in what was later classified as a training accident, to see the seat at the far end of the lecture hall go unfilled day after day left an impression more lasting than any directive the Centre could’ve handed down, a silent warning any emotional connection that might form would serve only to open them to pain.

 

* * *

 

They sat alone together in an ugly room with drab brown walls the color of soft shit, the old TV set on a stand in the corner blaring an episode of _Family Feud_ neither was really watching.

The safe houses they used were always the same. Cheap efficiencies in seedy parts of town. Landlords who didn’t ask questions as long as they were paid on time in cash. Rooms thrown together from mismatched furniture found discarded in an alleyway somewhere. The itchy orange chair across from the sofa left barely enough space to squeeze in the door, an ironing board and vacuum cleaner propped against the wall highlighting the room’s lack of closets. A thick layer of dust coated glass shelves empty but for a trio of fake plants so cheap they were in no danger of being watered by accident, the yellowed lace curtains hung in back by the bed tired and sagging.

The smell he would’ve known anywhere. Stale and musty like cigarette smoke and sweat. A refrigerator that reeked of old takeout. Carpets that had never been properly aired out or cleaned. A room not intended to be lived in, but to act as a temporary hole in the ground, those it hid around only for hours, or rarely days, laying low until they could be ferretted off into the night with no trace left behind.

Mind wiped blank but for a third recounting of highlights from the previous night’s hockey game, Philip slowly flipped the page, offering no reaction when the room’s other occupant glanced over in mild interest from the couch. They were seated as far apart as the room allowed, him hunched over the newspaper at a small utilitarian table just off the door, Gregory having stretched out in front of the TV with a cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers like he owned the place. The sink suffered from a slow leak, intermittent drips marking the hours until the next shift change, the grunt that broke the silence when he failed to look up earning no response.

Gregory stood at the next set of commercials. Going to the cabinet for a glass, he filled it halfway at the sink and took a deep gulp, leaning back against the counter once he was done. Giving the minimal glance required, Philip turned another page. Gregory took a long drag on his cigarette, the half-smirk curling at the edge of his mouth warning what was simmering just below the surface.

Never friends, their interactions had once been civil. The first agent either of them had successfully recruited, the level of involvement she wanted to allow him had been subject to question from the start, her insistence he could be trusted failing to dismiss the undeniable risk to them all should she prove wrong. The subject provoking a sharp defensiveness each time it came up, scrutiny on his part was countered with all the advantages he could provide them from an operational standpoint, and when that didn’t work, by the cool challenge to his trust of her judgment, the question simultaneously emotionless and charged with the threat of eroding the sole area of trust they’d managed to establish as partners. Not answering it, he simply stared at her in the dim light of their apartment’s tiny bathroom, neither of them moving, the Centre’s eventual approval silencing the matter between them for good.

Determined to handle the details of his training entirely herself, she balked at suggestions they meet, making a series of thin excuses he dismissed as yet another of her efforts to exert control. Rigid in insisting they follow orders and operating procedures down to the letter, it manifested in everything from their work together to the most banal of negotiations at home, where towels were supposed to hang in the bathroom or how many times per month they were allowed to have steak or pork chops without it becoming an extravagance points of contention between them. Having learned over the course of two years the value in choosing which battles to fight, he let it go, only much later looking back on her behavior as yet another sign he’d missed.

They finally crossed paths months later, shortly after he and Elizabeth began trying to conceive Paige, yet another status request from the Centre sending a thinly veiled message they were soon to come under a greater degree of scrutiny should their efforts continue to fail. The tension at home palpable, there were evenings they barely spoke, while waiting on a rainy night in a parked car outside a salvage yard in Baltimore not a moment ripe for conversation. Smelling distinctly of weed, Gregory climbed into the backseat and met his eyes in the rearview mirror, neither moving, seconds of silent evaluation passing before he grunted and gave a quick jerk with his chin.

They worked together in the field for years, the team he eventually established the first they called on for surveillance or for help securing and disposing of vehicles. A _true believer_ at Elizabeth’s insistence, he nonetheless accepted regular payments from the Centre when they started to come, pulling off jobs for them for over a decade while giving no inkling of any other motivation. The lies collapsing under their own weight as they sat across from each other in another ugly, empty kitchen, the revelation they’d for years carried on a secret relationship was delivered with the same smooth, casual demeanor he’d taken as indifference, too late revealed as having masked deepest resentment.

Tapping ash into the sink, Gregory took another drag and dumped out the water, taking his time in setting down the glass.

“Said you moved out.”

Tone uninflected, there was a laziness to the statement meant to drive in the knife, casually allowing to slip that she’d come to him again.

Not looking up, Philip turned another page in the paper. Gregory grunted under his breath and slowly exhaled, staring across the room.

“Guess things didn’t work out.”

He flicked off more ash, tone cool and nothing short of smug. Not allowing anything in but a single row of words after the next, Philip slid the paper up a few inches, forcing any sign of tension from his jaw. Gregory made a sound with his mouth and pushed away from the counter, going back over to the couch.

Both of them glanced up at the sound of the lock twisting in the door.

Elizabeth met his eyes first, face immediately hardening, anger bubbling to the surface for all of a second before she smoothed it under a cool veneer. Not bothering to greet him, she set a large brown paper bag on the counter and began unpacking cartons of takeout.

“Mmm-mm.”

Giving a little hum of appreciation, Gregory rose from the couch and sauntered across the room, the smile that formed not intended solely for her benefit.

“And she brought _Chinese_.” Pausing long enough for the knife to twist, he shook his head, voice dropping to a throaty rumble. “Just like old times.”

The cavity in his chest swelling to the point he couldn’t draw a breath, Philip swallowed, not blinking, unable to do anything but stare at the white paper cartons from Mr. Chen’s, the sharp, fragrant aroma of moo shu pork and spicy garlic chicken seeping from folds in the cardboard.

Chinese takeout perhaps the only thing about life in the U.S. to which she’d raised no objection in the early years, he’d taken every opportunity to indulge her discovered fondness for it, driving out to the small, dimly-lit restaurant in Arlington at all hours of the night during the difficult months of her pregnancy with Paige to pick up a carton of oily lo mein noodles and the hot, spicy soup she craved, the sole thing guaranteed to draw a small smile of gratitude when he brought it home.

Much later it grew to be a family tradition, used to celebrate spelling tests with gold foil stickers pasted to the top and hard-won victories over shoelaces, the four Jennings squished into a too-small booth in the back by the giant fish tank so Henry could watch schools of neon tetras darting in and out of the rock formations. Cozy together in a secluded corner of the restaurant, they munched on eggrolls and slurped up steaming spoonfuls of soup, Paige and Henry leaning over to take turns grabbing his thumb as he pretended to fumble with chopsticks. Dogged in their determination to position them correctly in his fingers, they dissolved in giggles every time he sent them spinning across the table at the first attempt to pick up rice.

The slightly distant smile Elizabeth bore clearly intended to suggest she tolerated it only for their sake, it was when she shook out her hair and covered her mouth with one hand that he sometimes caught a real one trying to form, the lines of her face faintly softer as she watched Paige and Henry laugh. Dishes of moo shu pork or beef with green peppers split between them while the kids devoured most of the sweet and sour chicken, dinner was invariably concluded with Henry half-asleep against his shoulder, waiting to be carried out to the car while Elizabeth packed up the rest of the food and took Paige to the bathroom, the four of them for the space of an hour, seemingly in sync.

Punched in the gut, he swallowed, comprehension dawning in a rush that _this_ was how it had been before. That she’d made some excuse to get him to watch the kids for a few hours and gone out to meet _him_ , commiserating over takeout and a mutual sense of injustice in the world. That white paper cartons of moo shu pork had also meant laughter and flirting with chopsticks, the sharing of all the feelings she’d carefully kept hidden from him back when the idea of _them_ had meant nothing more to her than another set of orders she had no choice but to obey.

That even as he’d waited up for the sound of her pulling into the drive, fighting the impulse to check his watch out of the fear something might’ve happened, soothed Henry’s grumpy whimpers for _Mommy_ and fielded a nosy six-year-old Paige’s questions about whether she’d be back in time to read a story and tuck her in, she’d been lying in a strange bed staring up at another ceiling, dreading the inevitable countdown of minutes until she had to return home.

He didn’t look at either of them. Grabbing his coat without a word, he made for the door, slowing only when she followed him out into the hall. Neither moved. Gesturing with her chin, Elizabeth hooked fingers in her pockets.

“Grannie’s got everything set up for tomorrow.”

He didn’t answer. Glancing towards the end of the hall, she took a breath and nodded.

“We’ll meet up here in the morning after I drop the kids off at school, drive him out to Baltimore.”

He grunted at the stubborn surety in the statement. Silence descended, marked by a subtle tightening at the edge of her mouth. She propped a hand on one hip, voice hard.

“I won’t be home until late. You’ll call the kids?”

Something in her tone all but daring him to challenge her, Philip looked down, for a moment unable to keep the anger from showing.

“Yeah.” Jaw tensing, he clenched one hand into a fist, eaten raw from the inside at the thought of what was going to happen the minute she went back through the door. “Have a good time.”

It was in the instantaneous curling of her lip that he got the confirmation he’d never wanted. Any measure of shock or indignation absent, there was only anger and the tiniest bit of unvoiced triumph, something in the defiant lift of her chin conveying the clear message she held no qualms about doing it if for no other reason than the satisfaction of rubbing it in his face.

Barely able to contain his breathing, he pushed away from the wall, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other, something searing like a hot knife into his chest when the door clicked shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

They took separate cars, staying a few lengths apart on the freeway until turning off onto the street for Henry’s school. Getting out first, Elizabeth shook her hair over one shoulder and stuck both hands in her pockets, slowing slightly as she waited for him to catch up. Silently falling into step, they crossed the parking lot side by side. The front of the school was mostly clear, a young mother with a baby stroller waiting on the sidewalk at the corner and a janitor sweeping up trash on the far side of the building. Flashing him a quick smile, Philip cleared his throat and held the door for Elizabeth to step through.

They found Henry seated on a long bench at the end of the fifth grade corridor. Shoulders rounded, his head was down, hair flopping in his eyes as he slowly rotated a pencil in one hand.

Having craned to peer into the window of an adjacent classroom, Elizabeth slowed upon catching sight of him, face growing very still when the pencil dropped from his fingers and he made no move to pick it up. She turned to look at him, expression pained, the hand that automatically reached for his arm absent the tension that had been there for weeks. Frowning, he nodded and stepped around her towards Henry.

Finally retrieving the pencil, Henry didn’t so much as blink when he took a seat beside him, dangling the eraser between two fingers with barely enough force to keep it from slipping. Not saying anything, Philip draped an arm across the bench and rubbed the back of his neck.

They sat in silence, muffled, rowdy shouts from recess out on the playground interspersed with quieter slivers of speech recognizable as Elizabeth and Mrs. Kosta in the conference next door. The pencil clattered once again to the floor, bumping against the wooden bench leg before rolling across the white speckled tiles.

Henry sighed. A twisting motion in his lips painfully reminiscent of Elizabeth, he tapped fingers against one leg and spoke in a small voice.

“I’m missing art.”

It was said matter-of-factly, the subtle note of accusation that would’ve seeped in had it come from Paige absent, leaving the resulting statement devoid of any particular investment in its answer. Philip didn’t respond right away, continuing to stroke his hair until his breathing slowed.

“Your class is still working on clay?”

Wiping his nose, Henry nodded without looking at him.

“Yeah.” He whispered it, bending down to get the pencil. “We were going to finish glazing today.”

Silence descended. A buzzer sounded over the intercom, a few stray shouts from the playground beginning to die down shortly after. Leaning forward, Philip rested both elbows on his knees.

“You wanna go back for a few minutes? Mom and I can come get you when it’s time.”

Henry shrugged, fiddling with the eraser. Thumbs tapping together softly, Philip studied his profile.

It had been the same for much of the week. Both of them hurrying over the moment he entered a room, the arms thrown around his waist clung too tightly, the questions they peppered him with so eager as to suggest they quietly masked the fear he would immediately leave again as soon as they turned away. The excitement in their faces slowly fading when the news they wanted to hear failed to come, Paige grew sullen and then angry, Henry simply fading into the background with no more to say than a chair propped against the wall. All but unresponsive standing between him and Elizabeth at the Beeman’s party, he blinked apathetically at Stan’s questions about the space shuttle launch, the wary eye cast in _his_ direction traveling no higher than the top of his shoes.

Fidgeting when the sudden absence of noise from the playground allowed bits of the conference to become audible, Henry scuffed his toe along a seam in the tiles.

“--sn’t turned in homework all week--”

“I _know_ he had it this morning. I made him open his backpack and show it to me before we left the house--”

Henry squirmed at the sudden rise in pitch in Elizabeth’s voice.

“Are you still coming to get us tonight?”

Worry briefly transparent in the question, he glanced up, just as quickly looking away. Tucking an arm around him, Philip rubbed his back.

“Course.”

Henry drummed the pencil nervously against one knee. Running a hand over the back of his head, Philip leaned closer.

“Thought the three of us might get a pizza. Just hang out.”

Shoulders sinking visibly, Henry toyed with the pencil lead for a few seconds. He started to speak, falling silent when Elizabeth came through the doorway. Philip met her eyes, letting his head tilt just slightly in Henry’s direction.

Nodding, she crouched in front of him. “Henry, _where_ is your homework?”

He shrugged but didn’t respond, picking at a thread in his jeans. Brow furrowing, Elizabeth covered his hand with hers and leaned forward.

“Mrs. Kosta said you didn’t turn it in.” Voice even, her mouth was set in a line that indicated not answering wasn’t among his options. “Where is it?”

Henry’s shoulders slumped.

“I don’t know.”

Philip took a breath, tone quiet but warning. “Henry, don’t lie.”

“We stayed up last night making sure it was done,” Elizabeth continued, raising an eyebrow, “and then you _showed_ me this morning it was in your backpack. I _know_ you have it. Tell me the truth. _Where is it_?”

Face contracting through several emotions, Henry finally sighed, mouth sinking miserably.

“I threw it out the bus window.”

Silence fell over the hallway. Eyes widening a barely perceptible amount, Elizabeth stared back at him, otherwise not reacting.

Philip cleared his throat.

“Then you’ll have to redo it this weekend.” He hooked his head towards the classroom. “Go through your desk right now and get everything you need in your backpack.”

Elizabeth rose and crossed her arms, face growing very still. Watching Henry go, she gestured towards the far end of the hall once he disappeared through the doorway. He followed, checking to make sure no one was in earshot.

“Mrs. Kosta said she gave him a note for us on Wednesday. When he didn’t bring it back she asked why and Henry told her he had a babysitter that night,” she ran a tired hand through her hair, “that he’d had a babysitter _every_ night that week.”

“ _Shit_.” Muttering it, Philip crossed his arms and looked down. “That’s the last thing we need right now.”

“Yeah.” Elizabeth rubbed her forehead, mouth tensing at the corners. “We have to get him past this. Last night was . . . awful.” Closing her eyes, she set her jaw. “He sat there staring at the desk, shrugged every time I asked what the next answer was like he couldn’t figure out two plus two. When I said he couldn’t go to bed until his homework was done, he started crying . . . wouldn’t even _look_ at me this morning at breakfast.”

Philip shook his head.

“There’s gotta be a way to split it up better. Figure out how one of us can be with them even when,” lowering his voice, he made a face, “things get _busy_ with work. At least until all this settles down. They need _us_.”

Elizabeth exhaled.

“He’s too upset to talk about it right now.” She tapped fingers against her bottom lip. “He’ll just shut down again. We should give him a chance to cool off.”

“Why don’t I take him with me now?” Philip raised an eyebrow. “Head over to the library and get some of his homework done. We can swing by and get Paige at six like we planned.”

Brow furrowing just slightly, Elizabeth tucked her hair behind one ear.

“Yeah. No, that sounds good.”

Hesitating, she glanced up at him, lips curling into a faint smile. The first genuine one he’d seen in weeks, it was tinged with gratitude and something close to relief. He swallowed, staring back at her.

Their eyes locked for only seconds before she turned to face the window, Elizabeth folded her arms.

“We can talk to him together when you bring them home after dinner tonight.” Forehead creasing, she nodded to herself as she spoke. “Help him see it’s for the best.”

The platitude trite at its first insistence, at the second he’d been unable to bring himself to care, the sight of Paige and Henry fighting back tears over lumpy piles of mashed potatoes and fried chicken they would likely never again request dulling everything else. To hear it again while sorting through the fallout from twin decisions made in moments of recklessness and with little thought of the consequences to anyone but herself bringing with it a surge of resentment, he quickly looked down.

They turned when Henry reappeared in the doorway, thumbs hooked under the straps of his backpack. Taking a breath, Elizabeth combed fingers through his hair.

“You’re gonna go with Dad. Get started on your homework.”

Philip cleared his throat. “Got your math book?”

“Yeah.”

Henry nodded glumly, the answer barely louder than a whisper. Resting a hand on his shoulder, Philip steered him towards the door.

“Let’s go.”

He paused once they cleared it, waiting for Elizabeth. A few steps behind, she’d slipped both hands into her coat pockets, hair hanging loose over one shoulder and face clouded with something he couldn’t read.

“Thanks.”

Stepping through the doorway, she tucked her hair back and met his eyes, mouth curling into an echo of the same grateful, hesitant smile. He didn’t return it, watching the expression slowly fade as they parted ways for separate cars.

 

* * *

 

Emotion a threat that took myriad forms, in fear it came in a shaky, sickening wave, rushing in, allowing no time to regain orientation. The heart began to pound, body and mind forced to a heightened state of agitation. Every form of stimuli met with overreaction, fingers grew quick to jerk in the trigger at the smallest motion, frantic gasps for breath skewing aim before the target could come fully in sight.

Jealousy clouded with a quiet, insidious lure. Coloring the mind in a translucent haze, it argued in low, subversive tones until reason was abandoned, leaving it capable of convincing its host to disregard all else.

Anger the most powerful in its onset, it blinded in an initial flash of rage, awareness slowly narrowed until all that remained was a sole target tinged red from the blinding need for retribution, any threat that emerged quietly from the periphery undetected until it was too late.

They were trained to surmount any obstacle, instruction at the Academy reducing the management of fear to focus and strategic conditioning. Duty to country drilled into their heads as paramount, repetitive exposure and habituation were the means through which they learned to suppress instinctual physical response. Their methods systematic as they were unrelenting, they were forced to clear courses with gunfire sounding just overhead and set live explosives while the clock ticked down. Exposure repeated until the impulse to flinch was unlearned, any emotional reaction to the situation was overwritten time after time by the physical response the Centre required until at last, it was erased.

 

* * *

 

He kept moving. Didn’t look back. Checked blind spots at the street. Started the ignition and pulled away from the curb, only after turning the corner allowing himself to take the first full breath in what felt like minutes. He drove out of the city, not bothering to switch on the heat or the radio, day fading unnoticed into night.

There was a point in times of stress at which training simply took over. Drawing focus. Eliminating unnecessary distraction. Clearing everything else away until nothing remained but a singular task at hand, the part of his mind in which he took refuge blank as a room with four gray walls and a single light bulb swaying overhead. It was a place devoid of feeling. Of caring. Of anything mattering but the orders they would carry out in the morning.

He drove past the motel and the prospect of another long evening of lying on a lumpy bed. Of eating peanut butter with a plastic spoon and washing it down with warm orange juice drunk straight from the carton on the nightstand. Of occupying himself with whatever game happened to be on that night while trying to avoid checking his watch, a string of stats and play highlights from the announcer unable to drown out the thought of what was happening across town. Gripping the steering wheel tighter, he turned into a bar a little ways down the road.

The first two beers didn’t do much. The third began to dull the burning sensation in his chest, slowly evening out his breathing, a close score from the game on the TV set in the corner finally drawing a vague measure of attention. By the time the bartender uncapped the fourth, he’d finished off an order of spicy chicken wings and a cheap plastic basket of nachos greasy enough to make the waxed paper shine like glass in the dim lighting, anger receding to the hollow, empty ache of resignation.

“Can we get a couple more of these?”

The voice was male. Young and confident, it gave off an eagerness more blatant than a thorough dousing in cologne. Taking another drink, Philip glanced over at the couple at the far end of the bar.

Legs crossed, she was perched on a stool in a tight leather skirt too short for any other option, lips that were painted a bright sports car red slowly sipping from a Pina Colada. Hovering just behind her shoulder, her date had one hand propped on the counter by his beer, the other trying to gain favorable positioning somewhere well south of her waist.

Gasping when it made a stealthy advance, she shot a quick look around and pushed it away, poking a finger into his chest in mock warning. She plucked the maraschino cherry from the rim of her glass and popped it into her mouth. Unperturbed, her date sidled closer, hand again making a move. He leaned down to whisper something in her ear, using the cover to give her butt a quick pinch. Swatting at him, she giggled in a high, squeaky voice and craned to peer over one shoulder.

Philip took a long swallow and rotated the bottle, tightness forming in his throat.

_Because you were_ thinking _about me?_

He closed his eyes, for one brief moment made bearable only by the dull blurriness of alcohol, allowing _that_ Elizabeth to flood him.

The one who giggled into her pillow on mornings he managed to wake up first, toes squirming under the covers as he snuggled closer to kiss her bare shoulders while she slept. Who stretched out luxuriously when he enveloped her in a hug and kissed his way around to the soft part of her throat, ducking her chin to give him a mouthful of hair. Whose fingers curled in front of her mouth, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. Who let him slowly map the back of her neck with fingers and lips until alarms began to go off in the rooms down the hall, flipping over on her pillow to face him for the few, final seconds they would have alone, eyes soft, sleepy and for a fleeting, stolen moment, absolutely content.

Finishing off the beer, he set the bottle on the counter and ran his fingers absently over the sides.

_I feel like it’s happening now._

The one who’d stared in the car as if seeing him for the first time, whose hands shook as she eased her way across the seat. Who hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t needed a day, a week or even an hour to question what she felt, eyes wide with a vulnerability fifteen years concealed as she leaned in for the kiss he’d pictured countless times, all but having given up hope of actually receiving it. Who hadn’t balked at ending an affair carried on for more than a decade with the first person for whom she’d ever felt anything, who could’ve easily concealed one relationship while waiting to see what evolved in the other, the chances she would’ve been caught after so long, infinitesimal. But who hadn’t wanted to, what was in her heart clear without the need for equivocation or even words, the thought of anything less than honoring that truth, for her, impossible.

Who’d chosen _them_ even when the word had meant nothing more concrete than a night of impulsive, sloppy fucking on the front seat of the car. Of hands drawn together as if by forces outside their control, sliding across tables and rumpled comforters and couch pillows searching for a way to meet. Of whispered tendrils of truth traded for the first time in twenty years. Names. Histories. Memories of the home they would likely never see again outside each other’s eyes, the realness of it slowly drawing them together snug as the tight mutual clasp of fingers, forging something unbreakable and eliminating the possibility of ever going back.

Of two strangers having found themselves standing together in a life that had formed itself around them, two children who shared their noses and lips and ears, a house they’d filled with a strange assortment of towels and books and cassette tapes, once strange and now familiar, the two of them for the first time in fifteen years, not alone.

_I want it to be real._

Elizabeth, who’d brushed doubt and uncertainty aside and put _them_ into words even when they lay at their lowest point. Who wouldn’t have gripped his arm, tears trickling down the edge of her nose, chest heaving as if to draw out the words was more difficult than anything she’d ever done if them meant nothing to her. Who hadn’t faltered even when he hesitated, face tortured and open and purely, nakedly honest, who wouldn’t have stared up into his eyes, heart held out to be accepted or crushed, and asked him to try if she hadn’t truly meant it.

_My head was somewhere else._

Elizabeth, whose trust he’d shattered, wounding her in the one way she’d guarded against ever having to feel. Who walked around their house in a fog, unable to look at him without the corners of her mouth sinking, smiles for Henry and Paige forced and lacking any joy. Whose jaw took on a miserable set, gaze trained blankly at the kitchen counter and face lined with pain when he asked _where_ , to voice the answer inflicting injury all over again.

_Us._

Rubbing his forehead, Philip pushed up one sleeve and made a quick check of his watch, some measure of tension draining from his chest upon noting they were past the eleven o’clock shift change. He lowered his head, exhaling.

It was done.

Reaching for his billfold, he paid the tab and grabbed his coat off the next chair. The night air damp and cold, it washed over his face with the usual rush. Glancing around the parking lot, he started back to the car.

_It’s for the best._

Elizabeth, who he’d always found some way to understand and later to forgive no matter what she’d done. For years of lying. For Gregory. For the reports she made to Moscow. For the interrogation he suffered as a result.

For the vast balance of a life together spent walking on eggshells. For smiles offered across a silent dinner table in their first apartment with the fleeting hope they would be returned, the look of abject misery he received in response doing little to conceal her disappointment she hadn’t been sent there alone. For the crushing loneliness that flooded him the night they began trying to conceive Paige, the misery in her face as they went through the motions palpable, emptiness thick enough to choke as he moved over her in the dark, trying everything within his power not to hurt her any more than he knew he already was, to make it tender, gentle even if not an act born of love. For the way she rushed to the bathroom the moment it was done, refusing to even speak him as if the orders they were both compelled to obey were somehow _personally_ his fault.

For apologies that failed to address or even recognize any of the hurts she visited upon him. Fumbling attempts to explain herself falling short of providing solace as much as they pleaded for infinite understanding, he’d accepted them as the most she could offer, the one time in fifteen years he dared to ask as much of her hurled back in his face.

_It had always been unequal between them._

From the first day he lurched across the carpet in Zhukov’s office to reach for her hand and was turned away with a neat step and silent look of warning, she’d been solely in control, what they would or wouldn’t become for him to long for and her to mete out as it suited her needs. The vast balance of their disagreements over the years eventually decided in her favor, he’d all but stopped voicing opinions on which washing machine was the best or where he thought they should hang their towels, falling silent time after time in favor of avoiding conflict. The imbalance still present once _them_ came to mean more than just a partnership, the adoring kisses laved over the back of her neck were never returned to his, attempts to find compromise falling short any time she was required to concede ground.

Understanding of her personal reasons aside, it was a state of functioning that was ultimately unsustainable, a fundamental flaw in their relationship as guaranteed to eventually bring about its demise as it would’ve had they operated as partners in such a fashion, _them_ never able to stand on sure footing if not as equals.

Blinking to clear his head, Philip turned into the bumpy drive just after the yellowed vacancy sign with one light burned out at the corner. He pushed open the door and tossed the keys on the bed, slowly stripping off his coat. Going through the motions, he checked in for messages and went to pee, numb but for the pit somewhere low in his gut.

Draping his jeans over the chair, he crawled into bed and flopped over on his back, butt sinking into the same hollow as the night before. The last place they would’ve ever put clients, at fifteen bucks a night it was of little surprise the room had come with a mattress anyone else would’ve thrown out, sagging in places from worn springs and riddled with uncomfortable lumps that had risen up in between.

Exhaling, he rubbed his face and stared up at the ceiling, the room empty and dark, noise from the highway audible even at night. Rolling over again, he punched the pillow. This time stretching out into the middle, he closed his eyes and drifted back to the empty gray room until his breathing began to slow, for the fourth time in as many nights, forcing sleep to come.

 

* * *

 

“Henry, look _out_.” Leaning over the screen, Paige grabbed his arm and pointed. “Right there--”

“I _know_.”

Yanking the joystick to weave Pac-Man through a maze lined in tiny white dots, Henry made a beeline for one of the larger circles in the corner, failing to get there before he was intercepted by a small orange ghost. He groaned and slumped in the chair.

“Too bad.” Ruffling his hair, Philip nodded towards their table. “Okay. You know the drill. Ten more problems.”

“Aww . . . just one more game?”

“Nope.”

Henry made a face but got up without further protest, shuffling back to the booth by the wall and picking up his pencil. He propped an elbow on the table, eraser drumming thoughtfully against the open page in his math book. Waiting to make sure he got started, Philip raised an eyebrow at Paige.

“You wanna play?”

She shrugged.

“Sure.”

Studying her face for a minute, he stuck in another quarter and stood. Henry had his chin resting in one hand, dutifully writing. Rubbing his back, Philip scooped up the last slice of Canadian bacon and wolfed down a bite.

Bent over the screen, Paige tucked her hair behind one ear. Making it barely ten seconds before getting cornered, she scrunched her nose and reached for her soda.

“I’m not very good.”

Philip reclaimed his chair and winked. “There’s more important things to be good at.”

Not responding, Paige leaned over to better see the console, biting her lip and maneuvering around until she made it to the corner. Smiling at the furrow of concentration in her brow, Philip picked up his drink.

Paige let out an annoyed sigh when they caught up to her again. “This game is so stupid.”

Taking a sip of coke, Philip glanced over to where Henry had pushed up on both elbows, craning to see. He cleared his throat.

“You ready for me to check?”

Rocking back in the seat, Henry quickly picked up the pencil. Done with Pac-Man, Paige absently tapped fingers on her leg. Philip turned when a car honked outside on the street, frowning and folding his arms.

“So how’s the French coming?” Assuming the accent of Inspector Clouseau, he narrowed his eyes. “ _Bon_?”

Paige offered a token smile. “ _Mauvais_. We have a test next week over vocabulary. I’m gonna be studying all weekend.”

Philip nodded, surreptitiously keeping an eye on Henry. “Maybe you and Mom can make up some flashcards, let her quiz you like last time.”

There was no mistaking the face that followed. Looking down, Paige fiddled with her straw, jaw taking on a tense set. Philip tilted his head.

“You okay?”

Shrugging again, she leaned back in the chair. The straw swirled in quick circles through her drink, swishing motions that betrayed obvious agitation. Tapping one finger on its end, she spoke in a small voice.

“I guess.”

He waited.

She let go of the straw, brow furrowed with a familiar stubbornness. “I miss you, Dad. So does Henry. Nothing’s the same.”

He rubbed her shoulder. “I know this has been hard on you, sweetheart. It’s hard on all of us. Me and Mom too.”

Staring at him, she swallowed, lips pressed so tightly they began to pale, nose flaring just a little before she burst out with, “Then why can’t you just agree to stop fighting?” She shook her head. “Come back _home_.”

Catching a flash of movement from the table, he met Henry’s eyes, noting the same distant sadness once again starting to descend. He took a breath, careful to keep his voice gentle.

“It’s complicated.”

The straw didn’t change course in the glass, only the way she gripped it in whitening fingertips indicating the shift from sad to angry. Dropping it with a short huff, she pushed away from the console and grabbed her plate.

“I’m gonna get more salad.”

Watching her stalk across the restaurant, Philip stood, going back to the booth.

“Scoot.” He waved Henry over with one finger and slid in beside him. “How’re the fractions coming?”

“Okay.” Scrubbing an eraser over the page, he rewrote the final answer. “Done.”

Shoving it aside, he grabbed another slice of pepperoni, gathering up long strings of cheese in two fingers and dangling them into his mouth. Philip checked over his math.

“Guess it was easier the second time.”

Chewing pensively, Henry shrugged.

Paige returned. Eyes flicking warily to his, she slid into the booth and picked up her fork, poking a tomato slowly across the plate. Spearing it with more force than necessary, she dabbed it halfheartedly in a gloppy puddle of dressing, hesitating a second before asking,

“So when do we get to see where you’re staying?”

The question was carefully neutral. Philip started to answer, stopping at Henry’s sudden shift in posture.

“We’ll have to see.” Frowning, he glanced between them. “It’s--”

He stopped short. A temporary measure, it was sufficient for days, but not weeks, a cheap hole on the side of the highway that wouldn’t drain their budget while they waited for the situation to sort itself out. The thought of bringing them there, of watching their eyes nervously widen as they stood in the parking lot only to cloud once inside the small, dingy room bringing with it a surge of resentment, it was quickly followed by the hollowing sense of isolation, the permanence implied in doing so causing something to sink like lead through his chest.

“--not that big.”

Paige didn’t answer. Clearly upset, Henry picked at the crust of his pizza, chest beginning to heave. Philip reached for his napkin.

“Mom and I need a chance to talk it over first.”

Lip curling, Paige made a sound under her breath.

“That’s _enough_.”

Clearly taken aback, she met his eyes. The table fell silent, Henry fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket while Paige bit her lip, face going soft and pale like she was about to cry. Philip looked down, continuing in a quieter voice.

“We’re a family. _Nothing_ can ever change that.”

Chin briefly quivering, Paige wiped a hand over her cheeks, finally whispering, “I’m sorry.”

A miserable silence descended, the sound of laughter from the arcade games in the corner only rubbing salt in the wound. Forcing his head to clear, Philip exhaled, running a hand over Henry’s back before nodding to Paige.

“Let’s go. Grab your coats.”

 

* * *

 

There was a necessary discipline in not allowing judgment to cloud, one that for most took years to master. It was a conscious shift in attention, to choose to move alongside fear, rather than suffocate within it. To step outside of anger and rage, standing passively by as they consumed someone else. To try not to think about something the surest way to guarantee it would linger, it was easiest to stay in a separate corner of the mind, harmlessly deflecting all but that which was allowed to enter.

Resistance to interrogation came last. The culmination of all that had come before, they were tested in every sense of the word. Beatings that went on for hours. Electrocution. Simulated drowning. Sleep deprivation. Psychological pressure carefully built off the full contents of their personnel file and four and a half years of close observation. A series of questions testing complete assimilation of their assigned identities delivered while bound and hooked to a polygraph machine, a spiked reading guaranteeing being held underwater in the bucket resting just beside the chair, responses given over and over until they slowly grew immune.

Conditioned to withstand anything, they were trained using the very tactics the enemy would employ upon capture, gradually working towards the most ingrained of all fears that for most was hardest to overcome, for others simply the assumed ending point of a path long since chosen.

 

* * *

 

The alarm went off with a dull buzz, rattling on the nightstand like an angry insect. He reached over to silence it. Yawning, he stretched to relieve the ache in his back, squinting up at the ceiling for a few seconds before climbing from the bed.

The street outside the safe house was relatively quiet, only a few cars parked along the curb, hers among them. He made another pass to be sure, circling around to park on the far side of the street. Gripping the steering wheel for a moment, he checked the street a final time, and got out.

The hallway empty, there was no sound but the hum of an old elevator in back of the building. Glancing over one shoulder at the door, Philip twisted the lock and pushed it open.

He found Elizabeth standing at the far end of the room, gun drawn and squared at Gregory’s chest. Frowning, he slowed, not advancing past the doorway.

She glanced up only long enough for their eyes to lock, attention immediately shifting back, her hands white and dangerously close to shaking. Catching the movement, Gregory turned. He shook his head, grunting out a humorless laugh.

“ _Look_ who’s here.”

Chin jutted and tone all but baiting a response, he sauntered a few steps closer, coming to stand halfway between them.

Philip didn’t react, just slowly closed the door. Meeting his eyes again, Elizabeth took a breath.

“He won’t come. Wants to find some cops to shoot him.” The words short and unemotional, she leveled the gun, everyone in the room but her knowing she’d never fire it. “Thinks that’ll end things for us.”

“For _us_?”

He kept the question neutral, having suspected from the start _this_ was how it would end, that Gregory had never planned to go out quietly, would force _her_ to make the choice even knowing it would destroy her to do it.

“True to the end.”

The statement half tossed out as a challenge, it caused no one in the room to turn, the far less noble truth that hid in its shadows slowly coming to light. That he had no attachments, nothing left to live for but the fight. No family. No one who depended on him as anything more than a soldier for the cause and no one who would grieve or mourn his absence when he didn’t return, his death fading from memory and consequence over the course of days and weeks.

Written off into obscurity either way, he would pick one last fight born from the need to be remembered, to go down in a final blaze of glory in her eyes. He would take out as many of them as he could, bullets fired with no thought of where they would land, indiscriminate targets of no operational value who he would never see as fathers who wouldn’t come home or husbands someone would mourn, dead for no better reason than that he wouldn’t fade away quietly into the night.

Struck by the dual urges to pity him and shake his head in disgust, Philip met Elizabeth’s eyes. She stared back at him, unblinking, the nervous twitch in her cheek silently pleading.

Nodding towards the door, he reached into his pocket for the silencer. “C’mon, Gregory.”

“Look, you people _owe me_ this much.” Anger growing less veiled, he took a step closer.

Philip took the gun from his waistband, not bothering to respond. “Wait outside, Elizabeth.”

Hands visibly shaking, she swallowed. “Gregory, _please_.”

“I’m done talking,” he spat back.

Philip didn’t look at him, just screwed on the silencer, unwilling to make her the one who had to do it. “Elizabeth, wait outside.”

She hesitated, voice wavering.

“No.”

“You don’t have to do this.” Speaking quietly and only to her, he finished with the silencer and pulled the trigger to chamber a round.

Their eyes met. For the first time in weeks, the mask fell, vulnerability entering her face as she stared back at him. Hands trembling, she lowered the gun, gaze still locked with his.

“I trust him, Philip.” Voice softer, she licked her lips. “He’ll do what he says.”

It was a desperate statement, born entirely of emotion, what truth it might’ve held clouded by her need to believe it.

He kept the answer even, not needing to spell out the risks she already knew. “I think that would be a mistake.”

Elizabeth took a breath, tone pleading.

“We owe him this. He’s right.” Glancing briefly at Gregory, she nodded. “And I know him. He’s always done everything he said he’d do. That’s who he is.”

Jaw tensing, he didn’t react, the words less than subtle in driving home the implication he’d never quite been good enough in her estimation, never shared in their particular degree of devotion. Elizabeth turned back to him.

“Please, Philip. I’m asking you.” Staring into his eyes, she blinked. “Please.”

For half a second he stopped breathing, the truth slowly dawning that as she stood alone at the end of the room, hair a mess, clothes rumpled and face lined with pain, she wasn’t talking to Gregory.

The room dead enough to hear a train horn sounding far off in the distance, she stared only at _him_. The one she knew would listen, who would see what it meant to her, wouldn’t force her hand. Who would put everything else aside and do what she needed despite any orders, personal feelings, or danger to them from Moscow, putting her first, just as he always had.

_He was the first person I felt I could really talk to. And I needed that._

The one she trusted would find some way to understand that it wasn’t what some part of him silently feared, and hadn’t been all along. Not about love or even lingering affection, but a part of herself from long ago that she’d never fully let go. That she needed to give Gregory this one last thing for reasons she couldn’t bring herself to say aloud, to bid him farewell in a way she could live with, moving forward with some measure of peace.

Fingering the gun, he stepped aside and set it on the counter. Elizabeth blinked, mouth beginning to tremble.

For a moment nobody moved, a shift in weight from Gregory at last signaling agreement. Philip looked down just after she did, not wanting to watch, studying the arm of the ugly orange chair as Gregory grabbed his coat and walked out the door.

Waiting until it shut behind him, he lifted his head.

She was still staring at the edge of the carpet, breathing tight and contained, perspiration lining her forehead as she struggled to keep reactions in check. Swallowing, she looked up, their eyes meeting across the room.

Neither moved, everything that had passed between them over the course of two weeks written on her face as nakedly as he knew it showed in his. Anger. Hurt. Betrayal. That he might’ve injured her in such a way, and she him, stabbing with a potency he would’ve once believed impossible. Sorrow. Grief. The loss of companionship that balled into a sore ache every time he sat down alone for meals, staring out at the three empty seats they should’ve filled, missing Henry’s oddball stories from school, prodding questions from Paige and the tiny half-smiles _she_ offered from across the table. Unspoken gratitude, the question as to why he’d done it one she would never ask, that she could undoubtedly see its answer reflected back in his eyes fueling the faint hints of uncertainty in hers.

_Love._

The one emotion that eclipsed all the others, it was a force against which they’d failed to warn them. To care for someone shown through action and not empty, weightless words, it was, in its simplest form, not so much a feeling of oneness but a conscious choice made anew every day. To accept her fully as the sum of her parts, not merely those he agreed with but who she’d once been, and to care for that part of her with no less devotion, not balking or twisting away. Its trueness tested not when things were easy but when they lay at their lowest point, it was the willingness to honor that commitment above all else, the promise not to flinch even when to _feel_ stabbed like a knife and the unselfish choice to stay when it was hardest, the bare act of saying the words meaningless if not willing to make such a sacrifice, devotion far easier to promise when it required nothing of oneself.

Stepping away from the table, he unscrewed the silencer and pocketed it, putting the gun back in his waistband. Elizabeth lowered her head, making a small sound only when he reached over to start clearing empty containers of Chinese food off the counter.

“Don’t.” Eyes closed, she balled one hand into a fist. “I’ll do it.”

Studying her face, he set the cartons down and silently nodded.

The hallway was empty but for the faint odor of cigarette smoke. Exhaling, he leaned against the wall, something deflating in his chest.

He didn’t look up when she came out, both of them making a quick check of the corridor before heading for the door. They descended the stairs side by side, saying nothing. Crossing the street, he stuck the key in the door, a final glance over one shoulder revealing she’d turned to stare at him.

Mouth slightly open, her eyes were soft, wide with gratitude and sadness, anger having melted away. He didn’t move, at last giving a quiet nod. The corner of her mouth sagged for a second, eyes threatening to water in what could’ve been the sharp, cold wind or barely suppressed tears. Waiting until he climbed into the car, she turned away, brushing back her hair and opening the door.

He started the ignition and pulled onto the street, releasing a long-held breath. There was no sorrow at his death. No regret. The absence of feeling numbing as any salve as it slowly descended, he let it smother the last tendrils of anger, what consequence he’d once held in their lives having already begun to evaporate, fading wordlessly as a ghost out the door.

 

* * *

 

They were met at the door by the warm scent of cookies baking and crisp footsteps approaching from down the hall. Greeting them with a smile that seemed the slightest bit too bright, Elizabeth caught Henry by the shoulders before he could make it into the kitchen, bending to look at him.

“Did you have a good time at dinner?”

Paige slowed just inside the entryway. Face clouded, she hung back. Failing to get more than a noncommittal shrug from Henry, Elizabeth reached out to touch her arm.

“I made chocolate chip cookies--”

“I’m not hungry.”

Careful to avoid eye contact with either of them, Paige edged out of the way and hurried for the stairs.

Philip frowned. “Night, honey.”

There was a long pause, the response mumbled just before the door shut unsteady as if she was fighting back tears.

“Night.”

Elizabeth met his eyes, brow furrowing. She started to speak, glancing down when Henry interrupted.

“Can I have one?”

Quickly clearing her face, she flashed him a smile. “Absolutely.”

He squirmed out of her grip and grabbed his hand.

“Dad, c’mon.”

Seconds crawled by, Elizabeth’s mouth coming open a little before she quickly shut it. Philip took a breath and squeezed his shoulder.

“Can’t tonight, buddy. Have to go back to the office and finish up with some paperwork.” Nodding towards the living room, he gave him a nudge. “Let’s go in here for a minute. Mom and I want to talk to you about school.”

Face falling, Henry went without arguing, slumping on the couch between them. Elizabeth clasped both hands in her lap.

“I know this has been . . . an adjustment.” She frowned. “It’s been--”

Faltering, she swallowed, mouth flattening. Philip waited for her to continue, stepping in only once Henry began to rub the toe of one sneaker on the rug under the coffee table.

“Priority number one is for you to do well in school.” Waiting until Henry looked up, Philip raised an eyebrow. “Finish all your homework, get it turned in on time. That comes before hockey practice, before comic books and before TV. Mom and I will be checking in with Mrs. Kosta from now on and we expect a good report home. Are we clear?”

Henry didn’t answer, still fussing with the hem of his shirt. Elizabeth squeezed his hand, touching the back of his neck when his eyes grew glassy.

“When are we gonna see you again?”

He half-whispered it, quickly wiping away the tear that streamed down the edge of his nose. Not hesitating, Philip pulled him into a hug. Henry sniffled, arms worming their way around him. Face falling, Elizabeth reached over to stroke his back.

“We love you,” he said quietly, cuddling him closer. “So much.”

“ _So_ much.” Nodding in agreement, Elizabeth waited until he straightened to lean over and take his hand again. “That’s _never_ going to change.”

“Never,” Philip finished, smoothing his hair.

Meeting his eyes over the top of Henry’s head, Elizabeth swallowed again, chin briefly wavering.

“Mom and I are going to figure out a plan so things settle down. And days when we don’t see each other I’m going to call. Every night. That’s a promise.” He took a breath. “Okay?”

Henry wiped his nose, still not answering. Clearing her throat, Elizabeth smoothed his hair.

“Dad and I need to talk about a few things. Why don’t you go upstairs and I’ll bring you up some cookies in a minute.”

“In my room?” Tone dubious, he peered over at her.

She offered a faint smile like it was their secret. “Just this once.” Gesturing towards the stairs, she squeezed his arm. “Go on.”

Silence descended, Elizabeth staring off blankly towards the fireplace while he sank back into the cushions. After a moment she closed her eyes.

“You need to see them more.”

He didn’t answer. Elizabeth cleared her throat.

“How’d it go at dinner?”

He made a face. “Little rough.” Glancing up at the stairs, he shrugged. “He got his homework done, at least. Seemed a bit better. Hard to tell, you know?”

“Yeah.” She waited a beat. “And Paige?”

“Still pretty angry.”

She didn’t respond right away, the corner of her mouth tensing. Waiting a minute, Philip looked down at his hands.

“Any word from the Centre?”

Shaking her head, she frowned. “I haven’t sent in our report yet. I started to, but--”

She didn’t finish, the tick of the clock on the wall in the kitchen the only sound. The silence seeming to weigh more every second, he pushed off the couch. Elizabeth followed him to the front door, hooking a thumb in the front pocket of her jeans.

“I’m meeting with Martha later. I’ll see what she’s heard, get an idea if things are settling down at the FBI.”

She nodded, glancing up at him. “Yeah, that’s good.”

Waiting a beat, he met her eyes. “Paige asked when they were going to get to come by, see where I’d been staying.”

“To the motel?” Nose wrinkling as she said it, the doubt in her voice was plainly audible. “You mean _sleep_ there?”

“Yeah, I guess. Overnight, or for the weekend.” He shrugged. “Not wild about bringing them there, but--”

“No, it’s--”

She trailed off, a twist in her mouth hinting she was no more thrilled with the idea of having them there than he was. The room fell silent. Neither said anything, the vein in her forehead seeming to grow more prominent with every tick from the clock in the kitchen. Finally she licked her lips.

“No, you should.” Nodding, she crossed her arms, voice growing steadier. “They need to see you.” She took a breath. “Tomorrow night?”

For a moment, neither moved. Swallowing, he looked down, struggling to ignore the hollowness in his gut.

“Yeah.”

He grabbed his keys off the table. Elizabeth exhaled.

“Philip--”

He paused with one hand on the door, taking a breath before glancing back. Face lined, she had one hand pressed nervously against her throat.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Undecipherable as statement or question, it was delivered quietly, the corners of her mouth giving a brief flinch as if they couldn’t decide which direction to go. Eyes locked, he turned without answering, the sudden tightness in his chest squeezing out all the air as he silently stepped out the door.

 

 


	11. Covert War

The inauguration ceremony was held in the main assembly hall an hour before school was to let out for the day.

They filed out of the first grade classroom in an orderly line, one by one matching up toes and heels along the single stripe of dark tile running next to the wall. Heart pounding, Nadezhda stood tall as she could while the other classes followed suit, arms straight at her sides and chin proudly lifted. A teacher stood before them for a reading of the rules, one of the older students from sixth grade coming by to pin the small five-pronged star of an _Oktyabryonok_ on the ruffled white bib of her smock as she promised to live up to the ideals each point stood for.

_Committed. Courageous. Diligent. Truthful. Happy._

She snuck her first look at it on the way back to the classroom, part of her wanting to touch the gleaming ruby points and more closely examine the image of their great leader Lenin as a boy at its center, an impulse she quickly pushed down, instead sliding into her seat behind a shared desk and folding her arms neatly on the table, right over left like they’d been taught.

As usual her mother met her by the tall front gate after classes were dismissed, one hand automatically reaching out for the satchel where her books were kept. The sweater she held out for her to put on was several sizes too big, the sleeves so long they hung nearly to her fingertips.

“ _Ona stanovitsya kholodneye_.” Smoothing her hair back, her mother slipped an arm around her shoulders to guide her along.

_It’s getting colder._

She waited until they were standing in line around the corner from the bakery to look up and tug on her hand, proudly pointing to the star pin.

“ _Nadya_.” She touched her cheek, bending to smooth the panels of the sweater. “It suits you.”

It was growing dark by the time they finished with the shopping, snow flurries swirling down from a cloudy gray sky. Her mother held open the door for her to walk through. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Nadya slipped fingers through the strings of the netted _avoska_ holding their single bottle of milk and shorter jar of _smetana_ , the sour cream they stirred small spoonfuls of in with soup.

“Can I carry it home?”

Brow furrowing for a second, her mother guided her past the crowded doorway and pulled her shawl tighter, finally nodding and trading the bag for the loaf of bread which was usually her responsibility.

“Be very careful. It has to last.”

The sky had darkened to nearly black by the time they reached home, the first snow of winter falling in gusting handfuls that stuck to the sleeves of her sweater, each tiny flake delicately formed as the gleaming star pinned snug to her chest. The bag in her hands growing ever heavier, she didn’t utter a word in complaint, determined to prove herself worthy of each of the qualities her teacher had named. Teeth chattering just a little, it wasn’t until she began to climb the musty staircase inside the building that she realized her toes had gone numb, the felt of her boots soaked through from the slush of muddy snow.

Her foot bumped the step straight on, the heavy bag swaying in her hands as she flailed to grab the wrought iron bannister. Hard, cold concrete rushed up to meet her, the angular steps clubbing her wrists and punching her sharply in the back as she tumbled down the stairs. Shock hit first once she came to a stop at the bottom, the warm, metallic taste of blood flooding her tongue before she could think to cry.

_“Nadya.”_

Hands pulled her upright, smoothed the hair from her face, turned her arms and legs over to check for scrapes. Sniffling, Nadya wiped her eyes, fresh, hot tears forming when her mother tried to rotate her wrist.

“It hurts there?” She tucked the arm close to her chest like a wounded bird might fold its wing. “Hold it like this.”

It was as she obediently nodded that Nadya first noticed the cool wetness under her fingers, a white puddle of milk streaked with dirt from the floor slowly spreading towards her. Chin beginning to quiver, she watched her mother carefully fish the shopping bag from the mess and turn the smaller cracked jar upside down, saving what remained of the _smetana_.

Upstairs in their apartment she set the food aside and hurried to get a wet cloth to clean the scrapes. Nadya didn’t flinch even when it stung, keeping her lips pressed tightly together until she finished and reached up to touch her cheek, offering a quiet measure of praise for her bravery.

“ _Good_.” Feeling over her wrist, her mother examined the bone. “Does it still hurt?”

Wanting neither to disappoint her nor lie, Nadya hesitated, choosing instead not to answer. Her mother guided her over to the room’s only window and pulled up a chair, pushing aside the long lace curtains so she could sit and hold her arm against the frosty glass. Watching snow collect on rooftops and the familiar shadowy outline of the city wall and towers in the distance, Nadya spoke in a small voice.

“It’s wasted.”

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, her mother gave them a small squeeze, voice betraying neither worry nor anger, only a deep, steadying calm that spread like a balm to soothe the lingering tendrils of guilt.

“We will manage.”

Nadya didn’t answer, just pressed her fingertips to the cold glass and stared out at the street below. Her eyes grew heavy, chin coming to rest on the sill, the pain in her wrist slowly beginning to numb. Somewhere in the distance, a truck horn blared angrily. It was followed by the sharp screech of brakes, the sound _wrong_ , alien as the buzzing drone of endless cars from a freeway just out of sight.

One arm still propped flat against the wall, fingers soaking the coolness from rows of gray painted brick, Elizabeth opened her eyes. Tangled, itchy curls hung around her cheeks in a coarse shroud, hair from someone else’s head sewn into a wig that reeked of smoke and too many years of sweating in cheap bars, stuck to her skin by caked layers of makeup and a disgusting mixture of snot and tears. Gasping for air, she dragged a hand across her cheeks, staring down apathetically at the dark streaks of mascara that came off on her fingers.

_Your life is a lie. You kill. That’s who you are. That’s what you know._

Squinting her eyes shut, she swallowed and pushed out the words, fighting to regain footing in a world spiraling out of control. She turned her back to the wall and leaned against it, lifting her chin towards a dull, foreign sky and sucking in breaths thick with fumes belched from a long line of industrial plants and tinged with the unmistakable stench of sewage, farther than she’d ever been from the remembered scent of clean, bright winter days.

Pressing a hand over her mouth, Elizabeth forced her breathing to slow. There was no doubt in her mind what _he_ would’ve expected of her, of all of them. The man who had served as her mentor and truest guide slaughtered in the night by cowards, he would’ve been the first to remind them duty always came first, that they couldn’t afford the retribution another American death would bring, the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth when her forehead creased in a protest she would never have voiced hinting at a fondness for her that had always extended beyond that of any of the other cadets.

Chest still heaving with quiet aftershocks, she wiped her cheeks, composure gradually returning, the weight bearing down on her shoulders deadened, resigned.

Philip was waiting by the car when she came back inside. Not looking at him, she reached into the front seat for her purse and dug out a cigarette. He said nothing, back to her as the silence stretched out. Exhaling, she leaned against the car and slowly nodded to herself.

“We take him somewhere.” Voice seeming to echo against the high brick walls, she glanced at the door and took another drag. “Drop him off.”

Back still to her, Philip didn’t answer, neither of them needing to state the obvious. That Patterson would talk. That the FBI would get a good description of her, even if not one of him. That it would come not from a random witness who might remember little beyond the length of her hair or color of her dress, but from an agent trained in what to look for, ignoring features that could be easily altered in favor of those they couldn’t so readily mask. That her refusal to let it go like he’d insisted from the start would eventually come back to bite both of them in the ass.

“We should go now, before people start leaving for work.” Pushing away from the car, he handed back her gun. “Let’s get him into the trunk. I’ll follow you in.”

Elizabeth frowned, clearing her throat. “Yeah.”

She raised the cigarette to her lips a final time and dropped it, grinding the butt under one toe. He waited a moment and turned for the door. Watching him go, she fingered the gun, his name coming out in a hoarse whisper before she could take it back.

_“Philip.”_

They stared at each other across the empty room, something in the way his brow creased automatically in concern making her chest ache. She looked down, unsure whether to thank him or simply nod in gratitude that for all their disagreements over the years, blame when things went bad had simply never existed between them, that she would have his back no matter what, and he, hers, understood as it was left quietly unspoken.

Lifting her eyes, she watched him swallow and slowly lower his, something clouding in his expression as he gave her a silent nod and turned for the door.

 

* * *

 

Halloween was a typical American holiday so degenerate and corrupt in its influence on the masses that even their _grocery stores_ encouraged it.

Pushing the shopping cart down the dairy aisle, Elizabeth stopped to open one of the tall glass doors decorated with paper jack-o-lanterns and took out a carton of milk, wedging it into the basket between her purse and a small bottle of cherry-flavored Tylenol. The capitalist ploy only growing more blatant as she neared the check-out line, paper garlands in orange and black had been hung over the end of every aisle, a large display of candy adorned by bats with cute, fanged smiles luring children to come closer and beg their parents to purchase sweets.

Lifting her chin, Elizabeth steered around it, pushing her cart up to a white-haired man at the register so he could ring up her groceries.

They would one day be forced to play along, their participation the previous year having been limited to a fat, misshapen pumpkin Philip carved after dinner and put out on the front stoop, an effort that left the kitchen counter littered with flat white seeds and the sides of her sink stuck with stringy orange squash guts, and a single bowl of candy she had to keep getting up from watching the news to offer at the door. Bending down in front of groups of grabbing children clamoring to get their hands in the bowl, she laughed right along with their mothers as if she found the sight of them stuffing greedy fistfuls into bright orange plastic pumpkin buckets equally adorable, biting back her disgust when she heard a glittery-winged fairy princess whisper before the door shut that the neighbors had better candy.

“That’ll be three twenty-five.”

Elizabeth flashed the required smile and reached into her pocketbook for the bills and a quarter, setting them on the counter and taking the paper sack from the bag boy.

“Thank you.”

Outside she made a quick check of the parking lot and got into her car, setting the groceries in the backseat. The drive over to the church off Russell Road took less than ten minutes, another five passing before Gabriel arrived. Pulling into the space beside her, he shut off the engine.

Stubbing out her cigarette, she glanced over the houses across the street, watching to make sure there was no sign of movement in the windows. Gabriel got into the car and cleared his throat.

“I don’t have much time. The Centre is expecting a report back within the hour.”

She turned. “What happened?”

“An American squadron of B-52 bombers was detected on radar coming over the northern polar ice cap. They’ve been flying on rotation just outside our airspace for the past twenty-four hours.”

She looked away, heart beginning to beat faster. “This is the attack . . . the one they warned their base commanders to prepare for. They must know we’ll retaliate if they--”

“So far no plane has crossed into our airspace.” Gabriel paused, eyes flicking over the street. “But our analysts can tell their weight based on takeoff patterns and fuel use. They’re believed to be armed with thermonuclear weapons.”

Elizabeth swallowed, voice hard.

“What are our orders?”

“Moscow wants you on alert. You may be needed to take out key targets here in Washington.” Gabriel stared out the window. “Regular communication channels may become compromised. You’re to check the wireless for instructions every hour, on the hour.”

“We’ll be ready,” she promised, sitting up straighter and reaching for the ignition. Hand slowly lowering when he made no move to get out of the car, she frowned. “Was there something else?”

For a moment he didn’t move, voice carefully measured when he finally spoke.

“There are,” he paused, the back of one finger brushing the window, “ _questions_ in Moscow regarding the report Philip submitted two weeks ago . . . the one detailing the unfortunate loss of _Kestrel_ , your former source in the Defense Department.” He turned to her. “I have orders from Colonel Zhukov to speak directly to you alone.”

Eyes not leaving his, Elizabeth nodded.

Gabriel continued, “There’s the concern the decision to terminate him as a source was made hastily, certainly that it was made without any authorization from--”

“He made the decision he had to in the field.” She shook her head. “Kestrel presented too high a risk, wasn’t stable. We would’ve had to eliminate him eventually.”

“And you feel certain of this?”

She didn’t answer right away, the words carefully chosen.

“Philip . . . knows how to read people.” Frowning, she tapped the steering wheel. “He knows how hard to push . . . when we can still get something out of a source and when it’s time to tie up loose ends and move on.”

“And what about his commitment?” Waiting until she turned, Gabriel continued in a low voice. “Have there been any _irregularities_ since insertion?”

She didn’t let her gaze waver an inch, knowing what he was asking, what they’d all sworn to report. That Zhukov had instructed she be questioned alone clearly no accident, it was _her_ he trusted not to fall under their influence, the one he knew wouldn’t be swayed by the incessant propaganda and softening material comforts to forget where her loyalty lay.

She took a breath.

“He likes it here.” Mouth set, she looked down. “Too much.”

The irrefutable truth, to finally state aloud the concern she’d held inside from early on, reserved only for the sake of not appearing to contradict the judgment of her superiors, brought with it a wave of unquestionable relief, the nagging flicker of discomfort that formed in her gut immediately after strangely conflicting. Pushing it down, she lifted her chin, unwilling to feel anything but regret he’d brought it on himself, their orders in that regard crystal clear.

“Anything else?”

She shook her head. Reaching into his coat, Gabriel took out a padded yellow envelope and set it on the seat.

“The Centre sent this for me to pass along.”

Mouth coming open for half a second, she quickly closed it, knowing what it contained. Gabriel got out of the car without another word, leaving her to stare out at the dark parking lot after he drove away.

She caught the sound of Paige fussing only once the door to the laundry room cracked, months of renovations having proven effective in muffling most of the sound going in and out of the house. Frowning, she left the paper sack of groceries on the kitchen counter and hurried upstairs.

_“. . . on to the sun till we found a sea of green . . .”_

Philip had Paige in his arms, quietly singing while pacing the room in an undershirt and rumpled sleep pants. Turning when she touched his shoulder, he shifted the warm washcloth pressed to Paige’s ear.

“She’s worse.”

He said it softly, still rocking her. Reaching over to feel her forehead, Elizabeth smoothed her hair and slipped an arm under his so they could switch.

“Here--”

Letting her take Paige, Philip followed her over to the rocking chair in the corner.

“She feels warm,” Elizabeth murmured, glancing up. “Did you--”

“Yeah, I took it already.” Kneeling beside the chair, he propped an elbow on the arm. “100.2. I gave her the last of the Tylenol a little while ago. She can’t have any more until after three.” He rubbed Paige’s socked foot. “You picked up another bottle at the--”

“Yeah. It’s downstairs.”

Paige made a sleepy face, reflexively curling fingers into her shirt. Bending to press a kiss to her forehead, Elizabeth stood and carried her over to the crib, waiting a few seconds to make sure she was settled. Meeting Philip’s eyes, she nodded towards the hall. He followed her to the bedroom. Carefully pulling the door closed, she propped both hands on her hips and shook her head.

“We’ve got trouble.”

She quickly filled him in. He didn’t react at first, slowly pacing to the other side of the room.

“God dammit.” Exhaling heavily, he leaned against the dresser.

“Nixon is . . . a _madman_.” She sank onto the bed, one hand waving in midair as she spoke. “He’s not satisfied by all the people they’re _killing_ in Vietnam, won’t rest until every last person who fights for equality is _destroyed_.”

Philip didn’t answer for a moment.

“And the Centre didn’t have orders for us?” Brow furrowing, he crossed his arms. “Gabriel say anything else?”

She hesitated. “Just to check the wireless for updates.”

Careful not to elaborate, she eliminated any trace of accusation from her voice, unable to silence the nagging suspicion it was because of _him_ they weren’t being utilized, doubt cast on both of them by Moscow because _he’d_ proven himself unable be trusted.

They both looked up when Paige began to cry in the other room. Glancing at the clock, Philip pushed away from the dresser and gestured towards the picture on the wall that hid the radio and one-time pad.

“It’s almost eleven. You wanna--”

“I’ll do it.” Standing, she frowned and caught his arm. “Try a few drops of warm vegetable oil in each ear. Leanne said it worked with Jared.”

He nodded, turning to go. Elizabeth stopped him just before he reached the door.

“The groceries are still out on the counter--”

Flashing her a look that was equal parts tired and amused she even had to ask, he shook his head. “I’ll put them away.”

She didn’t answer, something in the little roll he made with his eyes at the end as if even on the brink of _war_ he couldn’t resist trying to draw a smile bringing its usual measure of disappointment, the inkling of guilt that slowly seeped in once he was gone entirely new.

 

* * *

 

At just past six in the morning, their street was quiet, no sign of movement detectable from the curtains at the Beeman’s as she carefully lifted the garage door. She slipped into the laundry room only to find Henry’s hockey gear strewn haphazardly across the floor, his gloves tossed on top of the dryer, jersey and pads forming a crooked trail leading to the stairs as if he’d bolted away like a freshly shorn sheep the moment he was freed.

Letting out the breath she’d been holding, Elizabeth ran a hand through her hair and bent to pick it all up. Shaking his jersey out, she reached around the door to prop his hockey stick beside the taller one already resting in the corner by the utility shelf, stomach briefly knotting at the sight of identical red and blue stripes taped around their handles. Quickly unloading the gun, she checked the clip and set it on the counter in the equipment locker, sealed the door and snapped off the light. There was no sound from either of their rooms, the hallway dark and still. Carefully easing the bedroom door closed, she allowed her shoulders to sink only once she’d leaned back against it.

The bed was still made from the previous morning, the comforter smoothed flat and evenly draped on both sides, one nightstand holding a glass of water, the crossword, and a few balled tissues, the other empty except for a lamp. Staring at it for a matter of seconds, she went to the closet for her robe and nightgown, shook her hair loose and crept back into the hall.

Paige lay curled on her side with her back to the door, hair spilling in dark auburn waves over her pillow. Taking a seat on the edge of her bed, Elizabeth smoothed it back, running fingers over its length until finally she stirred.

“Time to get up.” She whispered it, straightening the neck of her nightgown.

Paige scrunched her face and twisted beneath the covers, a hand emerging to rub the end of her nose. Rolling over, she squinted up at her.

“ _Mom_.” There was a brief pause. Yawning, she mumbled sleepily, “You’re _home_.”

The first words directed her way in weeks without an undercurrent of animosity, they brought an immediate rush of relief. Smiling, Elizabeth continued stroking her hair. “Did you sleep well?”

Paige rubbed her eyes. “I waited up for you until like . . . _eleven_. Abby said you weren’t back yet.”

Elizabeth nodded. “The meeting ran late.” Rising from the bed, she switched on her lamp. “Put on something warm. It’s supposed to snow later.”

Henry was sprawled out over the bed with one leg on top of the covers, nightshirt twisted under his armpits so his navel showed. A _Star Wars_ comic lay open on the floor by his bed, a handful of plastic action figures half buried under his pillow. Shaking her head, Elizabeth collected them and moved them to his nightstand.

“Henry, wake up.”

Grunting, he frowned and rolled over, clutching the covers. She touched his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“It’s time to get ready for school.”

He curled tighter into a ball. Elizabeth looked down, voice hardening.

“Henry _, get up.”_

Seconds passed with no response. Setting her jaw, she peeled the covers back and dropped them on the floor at the foot of the bed, unwilling to indulge him in yet another miserable morning spent fighting every step to the car.

“Wash your face. Get dressed. Make your bed.” Ignoring his whine of protest, she wrestled the pillow away and pointed to the door. “I’ll be back in _ten_ minutes to check.”

Not answering, he curled arms around his head and scooted to the very edge of the mattress, as far from her as possible. She stared down at him for a moment, lifted her chin, and strode from the room, allowing her face to fall only once she was alone in the bathroom waiting for the hot water to warm up.

Running eagerly to the door when Philip arrived to pick him and Paige up for dinner, the rest of the time at home there was only a silent, unhappy truce. There were none of the crooked-toothed smiles she treasured, no stories of what happened at school that day or requests she make a favorite dessert. Their interactions limited to him fiddling with a pencil while she checked his homework, he was a shadow of his usual self, making no attempts to cut faces into his pancakes, blurt out hockey statistics or beg for an extra half hour of television if he finished his homework early. Shoulders slumped at an angle somewhere between apathy and defeat, he picked at whatever she put on his plate without compliment or complaint, responded to her questions with one-word answers and hurried up to his room the instant he was freed.

Elizabeth rubbed her forehead, after a moment leaning down to test the water. Adjusting the handle a little to the left, she reached over to straighten the towel by the sink, the lone item resting on a counter that had never looked so neat, her toothbrush standing by itself in an empty plastic cup, the sink free of glops of toothpaste, shaving cream and hair, lacking its usual filmy puddle of water under the soap, only a smooth, barren surface remaining.

She stared down at it, not moving, breathing beginning to pick up. They’d left Patterson blindfolded on a bench next to a grassy hill. She watched him for what seemed an eternity, birds chirping in the background as she took a final look at the man who’d ordered Zhukov’s death, a spineless coward they had no choice but to let go, his hands shifting nervously in his lap as he counted to two hundred as ordered, Philip silently waiting for her in a car parked across the street.

_That’s what you do. You grind people into dust. You have no heart, no soul, no conscience. Do you care about anything? Do you love anyone?_

Swallowing, Elizabeth pressed a hand to her neck, taking two deep breaths before stepping into the shower.

There was no sound from downstairs by the time she got dressed, no arguments over cereal or the thump of the refrigerator door being shut too hard. Frowning, she hurried down the hall to Henry’s room.

“Why aren’t you _up_?” Grabbing him by the shoulder, she pulled him upright. “ _Get_ out of bed and _get_ ready for school _right now_.”

Hair plastered flat to his head on one side and sticking straight out on the other, he rubbed his eyes and whined, “Paige is hogging the bathroom. She won’t let me in.”

Staring at him for all of half a second, she stalked to his dresser and pulled out a shirt and pair of pants, tossing them onto the bed.

“Put these on _right now_. If you aren’t downstairs at the table in _two_ minutes, no TV for the rest of the week.”

She marched to the bathroom door and knocked sharply. The sound of the hairdryer cut off, followed by an annoyed huff.

“ _Go away_ , Henry.”

Hand propped on one hip, Elizabeth set her jaw. “Paige, open this door.”

A beat passed, the handle twisting shortly after. Dressed in corduroy pants and a pink sweater, Paige shook her head and waved her brush in one hand.

“I’m _fixing_ my _hair_.”

Wrist flopping over lazily as she said it, her tone was saturated with an air of selfish entitlement that couldn’t help but provoke disgust. Making a face, Paige shook her head and turned back to the mirror, slowly drawing the brush through her hair like she had all the time in the world. Elizabeth watched her, silently seething, never having more hated the soft, spoiled environment in which they’d been forced to raise them.

“You can fix it in your room.” Leaving no room for argument, she raised an eyebrow. “Your brother needs to get in there so we’re not late.”

Paige sighed in an exaggerated fashion, grabbed her supplies off the counter and stormed past her, slamming her bedroom door upon arrival. Ignoring the outburst, Elizabeth grabbed the laundry hamper and hurried down the stairs. The kitchen still empty by the time she came back up from throwing a load in the wash, she stuck her head into the hallway.

“We need to leave in _ten_ minutes. How about toast?”

There was no answer. Raking a hand through her hair, Elizabeth crossed the kitchen to grab the bread, popped two slices in the toaster and left the rest of the loaf on the counter for sandwiches. Paige appeared in the doorway a moment later. Giving her a wary look, she flipped her hair over one shoulder and went to refrigerator for cereal and milk.

“Get your brother’s down too, please.”

Frowning at the sigh that followed, she pulled out the drawer and grabbed a knife, dropping it as she tried to twist off the lid off the jar of peanut butter.

_“Shit.”_ She muttered it under her breath, leaning across the island to shout up the stairs. “ _Henry_ , come eat your breakfast.”

The toast popped up. Unable to give it more than a distracted glance, Elizabeth pushed her hair behind one ear and got out a new knife. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, each slower than the last. She quickly smeared a fat blob of peanut butter onto each slice of bread, wiping off her hands when Henry entered the room.

“We have to be out of here in,” steering him to the table, she checked the clock on the wall, “ _seven minutes_ so I need you two to eat quickly. Did you bring down your backpack?”

Shrugging, he slid into the chair. “I guess I forgot it.”  

Elizabeth opened the fridge to hunt for the jelly, watching Henry rock the box of Cheerios back and forth before finally selecting Apple Jacks.

“Is Dad driving us to school?” Barely eating, Paige stirred soggy cornflakes around her bowl.

Elizabeth shook her head. “Not today.”

“Why not?” The question coming from Henry this time, it was quiet, glum.

She paused, a slippery glop of grape jelly sliding off the knife and onto the counter before she could catch it. “Because _I’m_ driving you. Now eat your cereal.”

The clink of spoons against bowls noticeably subdued, Elizabeth finished their sandwiches, stuffed them into bags and hurried over to pour a quick cup of coffee. Taking a sip, she set it on the counter and reached for the fruit bowl.

“Paige, apple or banana?”                

She got only a shrug in response. Not needing to ask Henry what he thought of bananas, she stuffed an apple into each bag and went to the cabinet.

“We’re out of chips. I’m packing you pretzels instead--”

Not looking up, Paige shook her head. “I don’t want any.”

Elizabeth took a breath and tapped fingers on the counter, patience wearing thin.

“But they’re your favorite.” Waiting until Paige peered her way, she gave her a knowing look. “You’re sure you don’t--”

Paige propped her chin in one hand, slowly stirring the spoon through an empty bowl of milk. “I just don’t like them anymore.”

The ride to school was silent, no one responding when she turned to ask if they had all their homework. Pulling up to the curb down the street from the travel agency, she shut off the ignition and sank back in the seat, digging the pack of cigarettes from her purse. The first breath went down with a scratchy, warm familiarity, the tension starting to bleed from her muscles after the second. She stared out at the street and slowly exhaled, after a moment stubbing out the butt and heading inside.

Philip was hunched in front of the computer screen. Glancing her way when she tossed her coat over the back of the chair, he raised an eyebrow.

“Everything okay?”

She swallowed and ran a tired hand through her hair. “Yeah . . . no, everything’s fine.”

He waited.

Crossing her arms, she leaned back against the desk. “We had a rough morning.”

There was a pause, the chair squeaking when he stood.

“Coffee?”

She nodded, fingers curling in front of her mouth. Staring after him, she watched him make both cups, hers black the way she liked it, his dosed with a generous helping of sugar and a touch of powdered creamer.

“Thanks.” Accepting it, she ran a hand through her hair.

He sank back into the chair, nose crinkling sympathetically. “So what happened?”

Closing her eyes, she exhaled. “Paige wouldn’t let Henry in the bathroom. Got angry when I made her get out, spent the rest of the morning sniping at me over every little thing.” She folded her arms. “I tried to pack pretzels in her lunch and she informed me she ‘ _just doesn’t like them anymore._ ’”

Philip grunted and reached for his coffee. “Well, that’ll never last.”

Letting out a humorless laugh, Elizabeth hesitated for a few seconds, finally whispering, “They hate me.”

He sighed and tilted his head, giving her a look.

“No, they _don’t_.”

“You weren’t there.” Pausing to straighten a stack of file folders on the edge of the desk, she glanced over at him. “How did things go this weekend at the motel?”

He shrugged and took a sip of coffee. “’Bout the same as before. They complained there wasn’t anything to eat. Paige didn’t like the rollaway. Henry thrashed around all night,” making a face, he grunted, “kept kicking me.”

Elizabeth didn’t answer, staring across the room at the picture of the four of them resting on the edge of his desk. _Smiling. Happy._

Frowning, she looked down. “Are you gonna be at Martha’s tonight?”

Philip cleared his throat and set the mug on his desk. “Tomorrow.” He picked up the pen again, absently tapping one end of it against the computer monitor. “I’ll call the kids after dinner, make sure Henry’s getting his homework done.”

Studying his face as he said it, she swallowed and nodded.

“Good.”

Philip pushed up his sleeve and made a quick check of his watch. “Actually . . . I need to run out for a bit now that you’re here . . . you mind?”

“Yeah . . . no, of course.” Pushing her hair behind one ear, Elizabeth stood and turned back to the desk, caught off guard by a flash of an emotion she couldn’t name. “Do you have a meeting or--?”

“No,” he hesitated, the answer striking as the slightest bit evasive, “just some . . . things to take care of, errands to run.” He waited. “Sure it’s okay?”

Flashing him a quick smile over one shoulder, Elizabeth shook her head.

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks.” He stood and reached for his coat, shrugging into it. “I should be back in a few hours.”

“Fine.”

Reading over the printout of the previous month’s reports, Elizabeth waited to look up until he was out of the room, smile fading as she watched him disappear through the door.

 

* * *

 

_“Shit.”_

Peeling her hand away in disgust, Elizabeth grimaced and finished stuffing a load of soiled bedding into the washing machine. Philip came down the stairs with Paige’s pajamas pinched gingerly between two fingers and dumped them in after the sheets.

“Anything?”

“No.”

He rubbed his face and leaned against the dryer, eyes bleary and neck dark with stubble. She reached past him to dump in an extra scoop of soap, closed the lid and pulled out the dial to start the water.

“You have poop on your shirt.”

Glancing down, Philip cursed quietly and stripped it off, lifting the lid to toss it into the washer with everything else. He moved around her to the folding table and picked up a pair of jeans.

“I’ll head in to the office right after breakfast, call as soon as I get there.” Tossing them into the folded pile, he gingerly selected one of her shirts. “You can check the radio at seven and then get Paige over to the pediatrician as soon as they’re open.”

She nodded, balling socks. “You should pack one of the rifles, keep it in back just in case.”

He didn’t answer.

She shot him a look. “If this becomes public and there’s panic, you might not have time to get back to the house before the Centre needs us in place.” Frowning, she grabbed the blouse. “Be careful. You’re wrinkling it.”

They folded in silence for a minute, Philip finally shaking his head. “I’m not convinced that’s what _this_ is.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

Making a sound under his breath, he picked up a stack of clothes. Elizabeth set her jaw, grabbed the basket and followed him up the stairs. Philip glanced up when she closed the door, having spared no effort in cramming all his folded laundry into one drawer.

“It’s been thirty-two hours. No update over the wireless, no disruption of signal.” Stepping out of his pajamas, he tossed them towards the hamper and lowered his voice to a whisper. “They _knew_ we’d see this on radar. If they were really planning to do it, why give us time to mobilize our defenses? Why not just drop the nukes on the first pass when there wasn’t time for us to react?”

Elizabeth stuck a hanger into one sleeve. “You think it’s a bluff?”

“They’ve done it before.” He made a face and disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of the hot water being wrenched on immediately following.

Hanging up the blouse, she went over to the dresser.

“That was different. Routine routes over Greenland and Alaska to make sure we knew they always had planes in the air. _Not_ an entire squadron and _not_ coupled with the warning they sent out to their base commanders three weeks ago.” Pausing, she shut the drawer. “Are you even _listening_ to me?”

The shower door bumped as it shut. “Yeah, I’m listening.”

The reply implying a distinct lack of concern, she waited several seconds before letting out her breath in a huff.

_“And?”_

There was no answer, the sound of the shampoo bottle squirting noisily serving only to further incense her. Grabbing her deodorant off the dresser, she swiped it under both arms and stalked into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Turning when she dropped the toothpaste in the drawer and all but slammed it, Philip sighed and angled his head under the spray of the water.

“I’m trying to think like them. Would _you_ plan out an attack that way?”

Mouth full of toothpaste, she glared in the mirror. “They’re _div-ehent_ than us.”

“Not that different.”

She spat and ran the faucet, wiping her mouth on the towel next to the sink. Getting dressed without further effort at conversation, she shook out the sheets and pulled them taut, fluffing both pillows and smoothing the comforter. The shower shut off. Anger rising at the sight of the sloppy stack of auto magazines and books on his nightstand, she opened the top drawer and dumped the entire mess inside.

“Can you remember to wipe off the counter this time?”

He didn’t answer. She folded her arms and leaned against the dresser, nervously biting the end of one thumb. Towel wrapped around his waist, Philip looked up from shaving.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

She made a face, not looking at him. “I need you to take this _seriously_.”

He leaned over to rinse the razor, voice tired. “I am, Elizabeth.”

Closing her eyes when Paige began to cry, she propped one hand on her hip and rubbed her forehead with the other. Philip poked his head up.

“You . . . think you might make pancakes, or--?”

Lip curling in disbelief, she shook her head. “Cereal’s on top of the fridge.”

The morning crawled by, measured in infinitesimal movements of the clock’s second hand as it crept towards the top of each hour. Soothing a wailing Paige while Dr. Rogers peered into her ears and prescribed an antibiotic, it was all she could do to keep from checking her watch every other minute once they were waiting at the pharmacy for the prescription to be filled, terrified to think of what could be happening on the other side of the world and powerless to do anything to stop it.

_“Mommy.”_

Paige whimpered it grumpily and squirmed in her arms, fingers twisting into her hair. Frowning, Elizabeth shifted her to the other hip and pulled the strands from her grasp, brushing them behind her shoulder.

“Don’t. That hurts.”

The words coming out crosser than she intended, she closed her eyes and jiggled her for a minute, the large, ticking clock on the wall behind the pharmacist’s counter seared into her mind.

It would be early evening back home, night already falling, her mother standing alone in line for _molochnyye produkty_ , hoping they wouldn’t run out of _smetana_ or milk before she could make it to the front. Having never particularly liked the smell of beet root, cabbage and sour cucumbers that permeated the air as they neared the fruit and vegetable counter, she loved the days they shopped for _ryba_ , the distinct tang of pickled herring sharp and pungent enough to make her mouth water even from outside the door.

It had always been a time just for the two of them, their feet matching up side by side in the snow or on a muddy sidewalk, her mother’s arm clasped strong and steady across her shoulders, nudging her forward a step, drawing her protectively back before a misplaced elbow or heavy bag could swing in her path. They traced letters together on pieces of newsprint to pass the time when she was very small, counted windows and doors and named all the colors she could spot, her mother later listening intently while she told her everything she’d learned at school that day, lessons in mathematics and literature, the history they’d been taught, a hand affectionately smoothing her hair as she murmured how proud she was she’d remembered it all.

There would be no warning for any of them when the bombs fell. One minute they would be going about their daily chores, standing in line for bread or heating soup over an old stove in an empty apartment, the next turning in horror at the blinding flash of light in the distance. There would be only seconds before the shock wave hit, time to run a few steps that ultimately wouldn’t matter, to crouch in terror behind a cold brick wall that would offer no protection, arms clutched around a few cans of tinned vegetables or jars of pickled fish, the last breath her mother would ever draw spent thinking of _her_ thousands of miles away, thankful she was safe, the day she walked her to the train station never again to return seared in her memory as everything went black.

“Mrs. Jennings?”

Straightening, Elizabeth blinked, quickly stepping away from the wall. The pharmacist smiled and handed her a white paper sack with the prescription, motioning her over to the counter.

“Three times a day for seven days. You can mix it with a little juice if she won’t take it alone.”

“Thank you so much.”

Fumbling for her purse, she set Paige on the counter and dug out her pocketbook, looking up just in time to see her straining to grab a small pumpkin cutout dangling from a string over the register.

“Sweetheart, you can’t touch that.” Conscious the pharmacist was close enough to hear, Elizabeth flashed a quick smile, fighting to keep the edge from her voice when she promptly reached for it again the second her hand moved away. “Paige, _don’t_.”

Face scrunching up, Paige pushed her arm away hard and tried one last time, bursting into tears when she lifted her onto her hip. Elizabeth glanced over one shoulder, face reddening.

“Shh.” Frowning, she shushed her again. “We’re almost done and then we can go home.”

Trying to fish money out of her pocketbook while Paige kicked and whined with increasing vigor, she finally set her down on her feet. Paige sank to the floor and let her legs splay out over the dirty tile, whining in increasingly grating tones. Cringing, Elizabeth pushed the money across the counter, noting out of the corner of one eye that two women had bent close to whisper just behind a display of pantyhose. Taking her change from the pharmacist, she shook her head.

“Paige, _get up_.”

Bursting into fresh tears, Paige kicked at her shoe and howled.

_“No.”_

She stared for all of two seconds before bending down to yank her to her feet and give her bottom a quick pop. Paige whimpered and grabbed her behind, face red and streaked with tears. Silently fuming, Elizabeth stuffed the medication into her purse and grabbed her arm, ignoring the whispers as she dragged her daughter out the door like a spoiled American brat.

 

* * *

 

“ _Paige_ , come set the table.”

Pausing with a hot pad in one hand, Elizabeth waited until a door closed upstairs to open the oven. Socked feet padding quietly on the floor, Paige came through the doorway behind her, immediately going to the silverware drawer to dig out knives and forks. Elizabeth set the dish of roast on a trivet and uncovered the lid, the warm aroma of beef and spices filling the kitchen.

Removing the oven mitts, she glanced over one shoulder, watching Paige slowly fold their napkins.

“So how was school?”

She shrugged and set out the silverware. Braids dangling over both shoulders, she lined up a fork and knife on top of each napkin.

“Fine, I guess.”

Studying her profile for a minute, Elizabeth reached for a knife to slice the roast. “Are volleyball tryouts this week or next?”

“Next.” Paige set down the last fork. “Is there anything else or can I go back to my room?”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and took a breath. “We still need plates and glasses. You can get out the butter dish and the ketchup for Henry.”

Paige made a face but went to the refrigerator. They worked in silence, the room still but for the thump of plates being set out and the tap of the knife on the bottom of the casserole dish. Finishing, she brushed her hands over her pants, tone quiet and guarded.

“ _Now_ can I go?”

Exhaling, Elizabeth set the knife aside.

“But we’re just about to _eat_.” She frowned a little, trying to soften it with a smile.

Not reacting, Paige hung back by the table. Elizabeth hooked an elbow towards the serving dishes out on the counter.

“Set out the potatoes and carrots.”

Waiting a beat, Paige reluctantly uncurled her fingers from the back of the chair. She trudged around the island, dragging the task out just enough that she couldn’t quite be called on it, finally pausing at the silverware drawer to wrinkle her nose.

“Have you been _smoking_?”

Lowering her head, Elizabeth let both hands come to rest on the counter. “Go tell your brother dinner’s ready.”

She stared down at the casserole dish after she hurried away, each breath more strained than the last. Picking up the knife, she finished slicing the roast. Paige pulled out the chair farthest from hers and fingered the glass of water by her placemat. Sitting with his hands folded while she dished up their plates, Henry raised his eyes only when she passed his across.

“Thanks.”

It was delivered in a whisper, so faint she could barely hear it.

Reaching over to rub the back of his wrist, Elizabeth flashed him an encouraging smile. “What did you learn today?”

Elbow propped on the table, he speared a hunk of meat, barely bothering to cut it. “We had a test in math.”

She nodded expectantly, the expression growing more difficult to maintain when he made no effort to elaborate. Leaning forward, she waited until he finished chewing to smile.

“And do you think you did well?”

Immediately taking another mouthful of roast, he shrugged. Silence descended once again. Fingering the edge of her glass, Elizabeth looked down, struggling to come up with something to say when the phone rang. Henry’s head shot up.

“If it’s Dad, can I talk first this time?”

There was a scuffling sound as Paige kicked him under the table. “You went first _last_ night.”

Mouth coming open, Elizabeth quickly closed it. She frowned and rose from the table, giving the edge of his placemat a firm tap. “Eat all your carrots. They’re full of vitamins.”

Crossing the room, she took a breath and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“ _Ms._ Jennings?”

Elizabeth kept her voice even, not allowing her chin to dip an inch. “This is _Mrs._ Jennings.” Glancing back at the table, she tucked the receiver between her ear and shoulder and scrambled to grab the notepad.

“This is your message service, Mrs. Jennings. I have a call from Bernie Gold with Pine Ridge Hotels.” George delivered the usual message in a tone boring enough to be instantly overlooked, pausing to give her time to take it down. “He’d like you to call him at 303-8122 to discuss the new tour packages.”

_Meeting, location three, ten o’clock._

“Thank you.”

Replacing the receiver, she tore off the slip of paper and stuck it in her pocket. Paige looked up, brow furrowed.

“Who was that?”

“The message service from work.” Sliding back into her seat, she took a sip of water.

Paige raked her fork through her mashed potatoes and slumped in the chair. “Is Abby coming over _again_?”

Staring across the table at her for a few seconds, Elizabeth turned to Henry, something in the listlessness in his eyes as he rolled a buttery cooked carrot like a log from one side of his plate to the other filling her with far deeper guilt. She shook her head and reached for a napkin.

“No, I just need to go in for a little bit. You can watch your brother for an hour or two, right?”

Not answering, Paige swirled an already soggy piece of meat through puddles of gravy. The silence growing uncomfortable, Elizabeth rubbed her temple.

“Can I be excused?” Whispering it, Henry fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth.

She nodded to his plate. “That’s all you want to eat?” Touching his arm, she offered a little smile. “I made the potatoes separate like you like them.”

“They taste different.”

The remark coming from Paige, it was stated matter-of-factly. Clearing her throat, Elizabeth took another piece of roast.

“It’s a new recipe.”

Paige poked her fork at the large, fluffy pile of barely touched potatoes still resting on her plate, Henry willing only to eye them warily.

“What’s in them?” he finally asked.

“Just a little bit of sour cream for flavor.” Wiping her mouth, she gave him an encouraging smile. “Try a bite. They’re good.”

No one jumped to be the first. Elizabeth lowered her hands to her lap, unable to keep her eyes from drifting to the empty seat across the table. Philip, who would’ve leaned over to take a second helping of mashed potatoes to convince Henry he would like them if he gave them a chance, who would’ve made his slices of pot roast into a small, talking cartoon mouth that teased Paige for not eating, making jokes in a silly voice until she giggled and agreed to take a few more bites if only to humor him.

Philip, who would’ve turned after they went back to eating and made a face only she would pick up on, meeting her eyes across a table covered in more food than either of them had ever _dreamed_ of as children, meatloaf, pizza, greasy fried chicken and homemade hamburgers, the slightest twitch of his mouth conveying what they’d never needed words to get across. That he _understood_. That it still sometimes bothered him too, seemed wrong as trying to force a fish to breathe out of water to watch their family waste the food they’d never had, together with her in it, neither of them completely alone.

Taking a breath, she turned to Henry. “You can go up to your room.”

He rose from the chair, Paige silently following. Shoulders sinking once they were gone, Elizabeth propped an elbow on the table and rubbed her forehead, after a moment getting up to clear their plates. She scraped them over the disposal one by one, the kitchen dark, quiet and empty. Waiting for the washtub to fill with a few inches of warm, soapy water, she stared down at the bubbles forming.

A task they would’ve done together, over time it had fallen into an easy rhythm, one hard to imagine in the early years of territorial skirmishes over elbow space and arguments about method of rinsing. He preferred to dry, keeping a straight face while she passed across soapy dishes, waiting until she reached for a new plate to flick her with the end of the towel, the grin that formed when she whirled to grab it suggesting no particular disappointment at getting caught. At other times it was a quiet chore, the monotony of it soothing as it had once been when she and her mother performed it side by side over a far older sink, Philip’s voice a low rumble next to her as they methodically washed and dried, the act of commiserating over a long day at work and often a far longer night ahead a comfort she would’ve never admitted to wanting.

_If you take care of something, Elizabeth, one day you will discover that you love this creature and your life would be empty without him._

She gripped the edge of the sink, a lump not for the first time that day forming in her throat. For weeks the anger had been all but overwhelming, her chest pounding any time she let herself think of it directly, a sick shakiness rushing in to drown her under a wave so deep it could never be breached, to resist all urge to struggle and let herself sink to the bottom in the eerie calm under the water’s surface the only way to switch it off. Betrayal. Fury. Hurt worse than she’d ever imagined herself capable of feeling. Shame that she’d ever let anyone get so close.

The pain not so much diminishing as simply dulling to a sore ache, it was only as the house slowly grew quiet that she recognized a different sort of hollowness forming in her chest, one pulled tauter by the sight of Henry and Paige walking around in a fog day after day, their family gutted by an emptiness that suffused every waking moment.

Lowering her head, she started to scrub, the sound of the phone ringing sending the sponge skidding across the slippery wet plate before she could stop it. Quickly rinsing her hands, she picked up a towel and crossed the kitchen.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

Said with no more fanfare than an announcement he was going out to the curb to bring in the trash can, it was hard to ignore the immediate easing of the knot in her stomach at the sound of his voice, tension draining from her shoulders as she fingered the receiver.

There was a pause, a muffled swishing sound as if he’d turned in a narrow phone booth to check the street, and then, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Answering quickly, she frowned and rubbed her forehead. “Yeah, it’s--”

“Can I talk to Dad?” Paige sidled up to the counter, eyes wide and cautious.

Elizabeth took a breath and nodded, passing her the phone. Returning to the sink, she laid the dishtowel out flat on the counter and smoothed it, listening to their conversation in the background.

“Yeah, we had our first practice today after school.” Twisting the phone cord around one finger, Paige leaned against the door jamb. “I dunno, maybe. Coach Jackson said my serve is better this year but a lot of the other girls are taller . . .”

Elizabeth circled the sponge around the lip of her water glass, letting soap suds drip off into the washtub before setting it on the mat to be rinsed. Finishing with the last pan by the time Paige was done recounting her day, she ran the sponge over the counter and squeezed it out in the sink.

“I’ll get Henry.” Paige paused, giggling. “No, I love _you_ more.”

Not reacting, Elizabeth looked down once she was gone, carefully smoothing her face before going to pull the laundry from the dryer.

She set the basket on the utility table, gave the first towel a sharp shake and matched up its corners. Stacks of folded washcloths, sheets and towels growing ever taller, she pulled the last one from the bottom of the basket and smoothed its edges, gaze coming to rest on the pile of clothes against the wall.

She’d found them at the bottom of the bedroom hamper the week before. A sweater and two plaid shirts. His work slacks. A favorite pair of jeans still stained with chocolate from the snowy day he and Henry had played in the yard until their teeth chattered, noses red and faces bearing identical grins as they stomped snow off their shoes at the door and came inside to warm up with cups of hot cocoa she’d topped with a handful of marshmallows just like they liked it. Socks. Underwear. Pajama bottoms.

Unable to bring herself to put his things in a grocery sack to hand off at the office or when he came over to pick up the kids, she pushed them to the back of the table against the far wall, trying to avoid looking in their direction whenever she came downstairs.

Swallowing, Elizabeth closed her eyes. Together every day for nearly twenty years, any fleeting note of satisfaction at not being awoken by him flopping over in bed, at not having to pick up t-shirts dropped on the floor a foot from the hamper or discovering the bathroom left a mess had quickly faded. Having long resented his presence beside her at night, snoring and scratching, sighing contentedly while she twisted the covers under her chin, unable to sleep, it was only once he was gone that she found herself missing the reassurance he was there, even after weeks of sleeping alone unable to move past the feeling of wrongness when she turned out the lights and stared up at a dark ceiling, her breathing the only sound in the room. Anger having faded to leave only a cold sense of loss, it was hard to remember the last time any of them had smiled, their family broken, injured.

She stared down at the table, after a moment reaching over to pull the stack closer. The scent of his cologne drifted up from the fabric as she fingered one of his collars, guilt, as always, twined thickly around the voice of warning in the back of her mind.

_Don’t take him back._

She’d looked away when he said it, made instantly uneasy by something in his eyes. The pressure there even at the end, it was a quiet reminder of what she should and shouldn’t feel, Gregory, the only place left she could still turn, in which she would find an unquestioning ally, the kids hating her, Philip gone, some part of her knowing even as he moved over her she was there for every reason but the one he wanted, the last night they were together the first that had ever felt like anything less than the truth. Gregory, the one who would stop the hurt even if only for a few minutes, who would let her forget about everything else and try to reclaim the feeling of absolute conviction in what she was there to do she’d once had at twenty-three, Gregory, not the one whose arms she missed just before she fell asleep at night.

She rolled away once it was over, unable to think of anything without tears threatening to form. Arms crossed thin and tight over her chest, she stared at the wall of an unfamiliar room, unable even to imagine how she would’ve begun to tell him she cried in the privacy of her laundry room after everyone else went to bed, that Paige hated her guts, that Henry never smiled anymore, that nothing felt right at home without Philip there, their relationship having simply never included that part of her life, as separate from everything else as she’d always kept him. The sound of a car horn outside on the street only driving deeper a crushing sense of isolation and loneliness, she got up and dressed in silence, unable to just lie there, knowing things would never be the same again, that even without her notice they had already begun to slip away.

_We all die alone, Elizabeth. Before that, we make choices._

Fingers skirting back and forth over the heavy wool of Philip’s sweater, she lifted her chin, staring out the laundry room window at the snow beginning to fall. Zhukov would’ve been told, she knew, the close watch he kept over all of them having always been personal in her case, trips back to Europe over the years to meet handled by him alone. It was hard not to picture the disappointment in his eyes when he learned she and Philip had separated, sadness not only at the failed partnership but for _her_ , of all the ideals they’d sworn to uphold, pledged their lives to defend, none of them mattering more to the mentor who’d from the very start seen her as more than just as instrument for the cause than the final one she’d once recited alongside her classmates on a cold autumn day, the one she’d long judged secondary to the others, that she might one day be _happy_.

The dark outline of bare tree branches clawed at the night sky, soft white flakes tumbling down to collect on the edge of the windowsill, not entirely unlike they once had back home. Watching them cling together in tiny drifts, she swallowed, breathing growing quick and shallow, hands tightening where they clutched his sweater.

_It was the right thing to do. For all of them._

She turned from the window, heart beginning to pound, relief like she hadn’t felt in weeks coming on in a rush as she hurried up the stairs. They’d grown together, irreversibly, roots tangled as two seedlings planted in a too-small pot, better for all of them that they not be apart. Paige and Henry would learn to smile again, the hurt fading, everything made right. The jokes would return, everything back to normal, mornings filled with messily constructed peanut butter sandwiches and arguments over legwarmers, hockey games and feet propped in matching socks on the coffee table. The kids happy. The four of them together, just like old times.

Grabbing her purse and coat, she rapped on the door and stuck her head in Paige’s room.

“I’ll be back in a little bit.” Sliding her arm into the sleeve, she waited until Paige looked up to raise an eyebrow. “You’ll watch your brother?”

Tapping her pen on a half-filled sheet of notebook paper, Paige sighed. “Sure, Mom.”

Studying her profile for a few seconds, Elizabeth frowned and quietly closed the door, stopping only briefly at Henry’s room before hurrying down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

An update didn’t come until late afternoon on the third day. Legs folded under her on the bed, Elizabeth leaned forward at the signal start code, pencil gripped tight in white fingers as she began to jot down numbers. She jerked the earpiece out the instant the message ended and bent over the page, barely breathing as she decoded it.

_Squadron recalled to American base. Resume normal operations . . ._

Allowing her shoulders to sag for the first time in days, she exhaled and reached for the phone. He answered on the second ring.

“Dupont Circle Travel.”

“It’s me.” Going over to the window, she glanced out at the street. “I forgot to pick up green beans at the store. Think you could stop on the way home?”

“Yeah, sure.” The relief in his voice palpable, he paused. “Anything else?”

“No, that was it.” She cleared her throat, letting the curtain fall back. “I’ll see you at home.”

Replacing the receiver, she rubbed her face and took a breath, snapping off the bedroom light. Paige was still napping, twisted up in the blankets with a thumb hovering close to her cheek on the pillow. Bending over the crib, Elizabeth smoothed her hair and pulled the covers up.

_Change is hard. Daunting. It uproots us._

Watching her for a minute, she slipped back into the hall.

The laundry room was cool and dark with low afternoon light coming in through a single window, something about the barest room in an oversized house that still didn’t feel like hers always having felt closest to home. She pulled the washing machine out from the wall and crouched down to release the switch that lowered a short metal tray. Waiting to make sure there was no sound from upstairs, she unwound the earpiece from the tape player and tore open the padded envelope to pull out a single unmarked cassette.

Hand shaking, she hit the eject button to open the door and slid in the tape, pulling a knee close to her chest at the first hiss of static.

“My darling Nadezhda . . .”

She closed her eyes and leaned against the dryer, something in her chest threatening to give way at the familiar calmness of her voice, each message beginning in precisely the same way, steadying, true.

“Not a day passes that I don’t think of you. I picture your face when the snow first starts to fall, remember the way you used to lift your chin and stand a little taller on the way to school. How you always loved the snow.” There was a pause, something in her voice softening. “I think of you whenever I make _okroshka_ with cucumbers and small onions just the way you liked it, whenever the air smells fresh like flowers in the spring and every night when I wash the dishes just like we used to do together.”

Swallowing, Elizabeth pressed her lips together and rested her chin on one knee, arms hugged tight around her legs.

“We had a hard winter. Olga Ivanovna from down the hall died just after the New Year. She came over for _zakuska_ and _Olivye_ salad, sat and talked with a few of us well into the night, and then a week later she was gone.”

She paused again, static crackling in the background.

“They moved someone else in right away, a young couple about your age. They keep to themselves but are nice enough. The wife, Zlata, looks something like you in her hair and the shape of her face. Every time I pass by her on the stairs I can’t help but miss you a little bit more, think of you so far away.”

Chest growing tight, Elizabeth stared up at the plain, hard gray of concrete walls, fingers curling at the base of her neck, trying to slow her breathing, a lump forming in her throat despite all effort to stop it.

“They told me last year you have a daughter now, gave me a picture to keep as long as I make sure it stays hidden. She is _beautiful_ , Nadezhda, smart, you can tell just from the look in her eyes, so much like you at the same age. I remember how you and your Uncle Anatoli used to sit and play chess after dinner, how he taught you when you were so small your feet didn’t yet reach the floor, expression so serious while he explained the rules. He told me later you learned it faster than anyone he’d ever taught to play, knew even then you would grow up to do something very important.”

A tear trickled down the edge of her nose, warm and weak, the fingers that quickly swiped it away clenching tight as she closed her eyes, lonelier in that moment than she’d ever felt. The photograph one of a dozen they’d taken at the park on a bright, windy spring day, Philip had worn the brand new camera swinging from a strap around his neck as if it’d been there for years, directing her to stand in a certain way to best catch the light and cooing at Paige to _look at Daddy_ until she turned from staring hypnotized at her hair swirling wild in the breeze and faced him with the only smile the roll of film would wind up containing.

“I am _proud_ of you, Nadya, for what you are doing, much as I miss you, much as I wish you were here. I look at the picture of you with your daughter and think of what a wonderful mother you must be, know that you will raise her to be strong and smart and brave, just like you.”

She didn’t move at the slight pause that followed, barely breathing, the final seconds always the worst, knowing there would be a sentence after which it would simply end, the messages she was allowed once a year to receive minutes at most. The quiet mechanical click jolted something in her chest, the warm hiss of static abruptly ceasing, the rush of homesickness that choked her in the aftermath drawing fresh tears.

Small and alone crouched on the cold cement floor, she didn’t get up, not wanting to leave the one space they still inhabited together, the sound of the garage door rumbling open at last urging her into motion. She carefully rigged the tray in place and replaced the grate, pushing the washing machine back and checking the floor for scuffs.

Folding towels until her eyes had a chance to clear, she dumped the stack in the laundry basket and pulled the string to switch off the light. Philip’s voice carried from the living room at the top of the stairs, intermittent squeaks from Paige indicating she’d charmed her way into yet another horsey ride. Smoothing her face, Elizabeth nudged open the door and quietly closed it.

“What color is this?”

Seated in his lap at the table, Paige had her fingers splayed wide as the pale, inquisitive arms of a starfish over the large pumpkin resting on the placemat, mesmerized as she gave the rind a testing smack. Smiling as he watched her explore, Philip covered one tiny hand with his and guided her pointer finger to trace triangles for the eyes and nose.

“Can you say ‘ _orange_ ’ for Daddy?”

What resulted closer to a growl, he nonetheless kissed the top of her head and wrapped her in a bear hug, turning when he noticed her standing in the doorway.

“Hey.”

Not answering, she cast another frown in the pumpkin’s direction and crossed the kitchen to pick up the sack of green beans sitting out on the counter, holding it up and raising an eyebrow in his direction. Still bouncing Paige, he shrugged.

“Green beans sounded kinda good.”

She dropped the sack on the counter and went to the sink to wash her hands. “Then you can be in charge of making them.”

Kissing Paige one last time, he picked her up and circled the kitchen table making airplane noises, finally depositing her in the playpen. Elizabeth snapped on the oven light and peered at the scalloped potatoes and meatloaf. The water turned on.

“Anything else in the message?” Tumbling the beans in the colander, Philip rinsed them off and set them in the other side of the sink.

She reached over to take a few, snapping off their ends and tossing them in the pot. “Meeting time for tonight.”

He nodded, silently working beside her. Glancing over at Paige, he lowered his voice. “Gabriel say anything about Kestrel last time you met?”

Not answering immediately, she took another handful of beans.

“That they’re still going over your report.” She shrugged. “I told him he would’ve had to have been eliminated eventually, that he wasn’t a reliable source.”

They both looked up when Paige began singing something vaguely reminiscent of _Old MacDonald_ quietly to herself. Shaking her head, Elizabeth snapped the beans in half.

“She threw a fit yesterday.” Waiting until he met her eyes, she continued. “At the drugstore. Was mad I wouldn’t let her play with the decorations over the register. Kicked and screeched and made me drag her out to the car.”

Philip made a face and shut off the water. “Yeah, well, she’s been grouchy all week from not sleeping.”

Elizabeth set her jaw, voice quiet but hard. “That or she’s gotten spoiled just from living here. Having _everything_ she could possibly want _all_ the time. Never having to share or learn to go without . . . she’s growing up like one of _them_.”

She rested both hands on the edge of the sink, mouth threatening to waver even as she fought to hold it steady. He sighed and reached for a towel.

“We won’t let that happen.”

Eyes closed, she didn’t react to the arm that carefully positioned itself around her shoulders, letting him pull her a few inches closer and softly rub her arm. Tensing slightly when it lingered, she lowered her head but didn’t fight it, needing for half a second to be held by someone even if it had to be _him_.

She cleared her throat after a minute and tucked her hair behind one ear, relaxing only once he removed his arm and grabbed another bean from the colander. Turning briefly to stare at her, he frowned a little, offering nothing when she glanced up.

“What?”

He finished with the beans, cheek twitching like he wanted to say something else. She took a breath.

_“What?”_

A beat passed. He looked down. “You ever . . . think about when we might wanna,” he hesitated, “have another?”

Something jerking in her gut, she picked up the sponge and wiped up the water that had splashed next to the sink. Philip took the pot to the stove and switched on the burner, coming back to lean against the island. She squeezed out the sponge, conscious he was still waiting for an answer.

“It’s too soon.” Keeping her voice steady, she slowly nodded. “She’s still so young.”

He went to the fridge and pulled out a beer, holding up a second bottle and raising an eyebrow. She shook her head. He pulled the opener from the drawer.

“She’s almost two.” He said it quietly, the words rushed in places, hesitant in others. “Besides, it might not happen right away. It took a little while with--”

Chest so tight she could barely breathe, Elizabeth set the sponge in its place by the edge of the sink and turned to face him.

“I’m not ready.”

Leaving no room for further debate or discussion, she brushed past him, jaw clenched and eyes blurred with unwanted tears as she hurried up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

His car was parked outside the motel room, the lights still on inside. Pulling into the next space, Elizabeth shut off the engine and ran a quick hand through her hair, reaching across the seat for the six-pack she’d picked up at a 7-Eleven on the way. A sharp wind gusted the moment she got out of the car, the snowfall light but steadily increasing. Pulling her coat tighter, she walked up to the door, hesitating only briefly before knocking.

For a few seconds there was nothing, the sound of the TV shutting off bringing with it a sudden pang of nervousness. The wind blew her hair in her face. She quickly tucked it back, something catching in her throat when the door swung open.

Straightening in obvious surprise, he frowned and glanced behind her at the street.

“What’s up?”

The silence that followed, deafening, Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak and hesitated, stomach dropping a foot.

“I wanted to say thanks.” The words coming out haltingly, she tucked one hand in her pocket, immediately raising her eyes back to his. “A lot.”

Brow furrowing, Philip shook his head a barely perceptible amount. “You didn’t have to drive all the way out here.”

“I did, though.” She looked down, struggling to come up with a way to steer things back on track. Taking a breath, she lifted the six-pack. “I . . . I brought beer.”

Still frowning, he stared at it, tone dubious.

“’Thanks a lot’ beer?”

She nodded, still studying his face. Not moving for a beat, he finally stepped back to let her in. The room was cleaner than she’d expected, bed made, ice bucket and cups stacked neatly on a tray, the nightstand empty but for his wallet. He closed the door. Setting the beer on the dresser next to the TV, she pulled out two bottles.

“Do you, um, have an opener?”

He put out a hand to take one, wedging the cap over the corner of the TV and knocking it off with a well-placed smack like they’d once done before being sent halfway across the world to fill a house with unnecessary gadgets, automatic coffee makers and electric juicers, Cuisinarts, stand mixers and garlic presses, when just having a cold beer at the end of a long day had been luxury enough. Something loosening in her chest, she peered up at his profile when he reached over to trade, allowing a faint smile.

“Oh. Just like old times.”

He opened the second bottle and looked down at the label, after a moment glancing towards the door. “At least I stopped using my teeth.”

Voice hard to place, he leaned against the dresser, fingers flexing around the bottle. She took a drink and sank onto the edge of the bed.

“This place is um--”

“Homey?” he finished, taking a swallow of beer.

His eyes locked with hers, the statement tinged with the same note of resentment that had been there before. Momentarily faltering, she looked away, gaze coming to rest on the open suitcase behind her on the bed. She swallowed, staring down at it, tension draining away as understanding came in a rush. That he’d recognized surely as she had it had been a mistake. That it would only further unsettle Paige and Henry if it continued any longer, neither needing to point out the obvious, on the same page as surely as they had been all along. Taking a breath, she turned to face him.

“You going somewhere?”

He stared back at her for a minute, finally shaking his head.

“I can’t stay here anymore.” Mouth twisting, he paused. “I don’t wanna bring the kids here again.”

“Right.” She nodded, searching his face.

“It was fun for a night or two,” Philip tilted the beer bottle, shrugging as he spoke, “but they need to feel--”

“Rooted,” she finished for him. “I completely,” struggling to come up with words, she looked down, “I--”

She exhaled, heart beating faster.

“No, I think,” blinking, she nodded to herself, “it’s been long enough and,” she met his eyes, offering a tiny smile, “it’s the right thing to do.”

“Actually,” he pushed away from the dresser, coming around the bed, “you think I could take you back to the house and borrow the car to move my bags?” Setting the beer on the nightstand, he pulled the suitcase closer. “Because my battery’s dead?”

“Yeah, your bags’ll fit in the car,” she gestured towards the door, “and you could just deal with the battery tomorrow.”

Glancing up from packing, he made a face. “Oh . . . you wanna see it?”

She tilted her head, frowning a little. “See it?”

Neither moved, a beat passing, and then,

“The apartment.”

The room seemed to still in place. For a moment forgetting to breathe, she could only stare back at him, seconds measured by the deepening lines in his forehead. Realizing her mouth had come open, she quickly closed it, forcing the words out.

“Oh, you . . . got an apartment.”

Unable to look at him, she turned her head to the side, breathing beginning to pick up speed, a familiar burning sensation creeping uninvited into her nose. Eyes prickling a second later, she blinked and fought against it, staring at the bedspread, trying to regain control.

Philip took a breath, voice softer when he finally spoke.

“So, _do_ you wanna see it?”

The words slowly squeezed something deep in her chest. Worse even than the discovery he’d taken steps to lengthen the separation was the acknowledgment he knew she’d misunderstood, thought he was coming home, _wanted_ him there, and that it made no difference. Quickly pushing off the bed, she shook her head.

“No, I’m--”

Looking anywhere but at him, she gestured with one hand. “You should definitely take the car and I should, um,” hurrying over to the dresser, she set the beer down and fished in her pocket for the car keys, “I’ll take the bus.”

There was a pause, and then, “I can drive you.”

“N-no.” Back still to him, she set the keys on the dresser and straightened them, ducking her head when tears blurred her vision. She swallowed, forcing any sign of affectation from her voice. “The bus is a breeze.”

Crossing the room in three swift steps, she reached the door before he could say anything else, the icy night air washing over her face as she shut it and leaned against the outside wall. Quickly tucking her hair back, she stuffed both hands in her pockets and started towards the street, grateful only that he hadn’t seen her cry.

 

 

 


	12. The Oath

“Henry . . . Paige?” Sliding her arms from the sleeves of her coat just inside the front door, Elizabeth paused to set her purse on the table and listened for a moment, glancing carefully around. “Guys, are you home?”

Smile slowly hardening when an answer failed to come, she gave the hallway one last check and turned for the stairs. Henry’s room came first. Picking his pajamas up off the floor, she pulled out the dirty underwear stuck in one leg, tossed them into the hamper, went to the closet and opened it, jerking back at the landslide of toys, action figures, and miscellaneous plastic board game pieces that spilled out at her feet.

_Cleaned indeed._

_“Henry,”_ she muttered through clenched teeth. Letting out a huff, she reached up to the top shelf for his suitcase and reluctantly shoveled the rest of the mess back inside.

He was easy, clothes all but irrelevant, the last thing he would be excited to find inside. Packing them anyway, she folded his newest pair of jeans and the clean pajamas from his top drawer, a few shirts and sweaters, and extra socks with red stripes for his favorite hockey team, putting the fresh underwear front and center as a silent reminder he was actually to _change_ them daily even if she wasn't there to remind him.

Staring down at the suitcase without moving for a few seconds, she quickly squinted her eyes shut, ran a hand through her hair and turned to look for something _he_ would like, finally settling on the space shuttle book from his desk shelf and a pair of action figures she hoped came from the same cartoon . . . or at the very least, got along. She snapped the latches closed and lifted the suitcase off the bed, taking one last look at his walls, a messy collage of ribbons, artwork, astronaut posters and a well-loved dartboard she and Philip had argued over surprising him with for Christmas one year, before snapping off the light.

Paige's room was neater, as always, the bed made, the chair pushed in under her desk without the need for constant reminders. She'd stacked her notebooks from the night before, pencils and pens arranged neatly in a cup in the center supply holder, a wastebasket full of balled tissues hinting at another long evening spent lamenting over _Matthew Beeman_.

Shaking her head, Elizabeth went to the closet for the bubble gum pink suitcase she'd barely managed to conceal her dismay over when Paige selected it in the department store, a dubious smile and, ‘ _You're sure this is the one you really want?’_ all it had taken to cement the choice stubbornly in place. She began picking out clothes, carefully folding the green sweater that made her hair shine and the dark brown corduroy shirt that brought out her eyes. Her hands slowed as she began smoothing her slacks, straightening seams that encased teenage legs now long and tall, so far removed from those of the chubby baby she'd once bounced for hours in her lap, babbling and cooing and groping for strands of her hair as they read books together and waited for her to nod off to sleep.

A lump formed in her throat. Pulling one of Paige’s sweaters to her chest, Elizabeth inhaled the fresh, flowery scent of her favorite shampoo, running fingers over the patterned neckline for a few seconds before quickly setting it in the suitcase with the others.

_It would be cold in Ottawa, probably colder still wherever the Centre sent them after that._

Clearing her throat, she went to her underwear drawer and found the rest of the necessities, remembering to search under the bathroom sink for the small pastel package of napkins she would loathe asking Philip to buy her at the drugstore, even after months unwilling to so much as mouth the word _pads_ for the shopping list if he was in the room. Elizabeth sat on the edge of her bed and closed the latches, staring at her name printed in large, bubbly letters on the handle tag.

_Paige Jennings_.

They would have to be given new aliases, the first of many measures necessary for their safety and protection, and one she could picture Philip selling to Henry as some sort of spy game the two of them would have fun with together-- _cool_ by the time he finished describing it. The same tactic all but guaranteed to be ineffective with Paige, it was easy to picture her denouncing the name change as a personal indignity, quietly resenting _her_ for the injustice of it all even in her absence.

She fingered the tag, glancing over the collection of photographs crookedly taped to the mirror behind her dresser. Most of various friends from school making awful faces for the camera, there was a copy of her eighth grade portrait, one of her and Henry at his most recent birthday grinning identical chocolate-covered smiles, one of her and Philip standing beside a scarf-adorned snowman they'd built together several winters before, her arms thin and spindly as they hooked around both of them in turn, and half a dozen shots from her swim meets over the years, only one face conspicuously absent in the pictures up on the mirror.

Looking down for a moment, Elizabeth rose from the bed and smoothed her comforter, not giving the photographs a second glance. She put their suitcases in the garage behind the ice chest they took every summer on family trips to the beach, slathered the kids with sunscreen while Henry whined and complained it was slimy, and piled in the car with a lunch of sandwiches, sodas and beer, Philip more often than not waiting until he thought she was distracted to switch the radio to some horrible, twangy country station the kids would giggle at and imitate for weeks just to get a laugh. ‘ _The radio gives Mom a headache,’_ what he would crinkle his nose and murmur apologetically in the direction of the titters coming from the backseat when she shot him a deathly look and switched it off, it was a faulty translation but far better than, ‘ _Everything about this place gives Mom a headache,’_ for their immediate purposes, a temporary truce again restored as the Oldsmobile traveled silently down the highway.

The memory drawing a sad, shaky smile, she quickly pushed the ice chest back into place when the front door slammed shut.

"Mom?"

"In here," she called, wiping her cheeks and grabbing a half-empty sack of birdseed off the shelf. Raising an eyebrow in Henry's direction once the door was safely closed, she nodded to the backyard. "Who wants to refill the feeder?"

Paige frowned and set her backpack on the counter, propping one elbow and selecting a banana. "What are you doing home so early?"

Trying to ignore her tone, Elizabeth flashed a quick smile. "You guys are having dinner with Dad tonight so I thought we could do something together before that," looking between them, she gave a little shrug, "play a board game or walk over to the park for some ice cream--"

" _Before_ dinner?"

Silence fell. She stared at Paige, their brows furrowing to match, the last night she'd picked her up from Philip's apartment stirring somewhere in the back of her mind. Shouts and laughter easily audible from down the hall until the moment her knock at the door caused silence to fall, _fun_ was simply an understood expectation of an evening with Dad, a source of deepest suspicion should _she_ suggest it.

Swallowing, she shrugged, forcing levity into her voice that she didn't really feel.

"C'mon, why not?"

Paige chewed her banana in silence, giving her a look like the answer was obvious. "If we're going out with Dad, I need to do my homework." She grabbed her backpack, nose crinkling apologetically. "Sorry."

Drumming fingers on the counter, Elizabeth turned to Henry, the child who had never refused chocolate, and raised an eyebrow. He bit his lip, eyes edging towards the TV.

"We could play _Life_ or _Clue_ ," she offered, making the last suggestion only reluctantly, "or . . . _Risk_."

Henry's face fell, the smile that followed, forced. "That sounds great, Mom, but . . ."

He trailed off. Nodding to herself, she flashed him a prompting smile.

"But?"

Chewing on his lip for a minute, Henry grabbed the back of a chair, squirming in place.

"But the Stanley Cup is coming on tonight and I don't wanna go _anywhere_." Hesitating, he wrinkled his nose. "Do you think Dad'll be mad if I just wanna stay here and watch it?"

For half a second she didn't move, the strange rush of lightness that followed her next breath drawing a momentary frown.

"Not at all." Motioning him over to the couch, she opened the cabinet. "In fact, I'll make you a bowl of popcorn." Waiting until he turned, she lowered her voice and smiled. "Do you want a soda to go with it?"

"Really?"

Tone dubious, he hesitated, like Paige, wary of a trap. Fighting to keep her smile bright, she nodded.

Settled in front of the TV, Henry kicked off his shoes and stuck his feet on the coffee table, offering a real grin for good measure when she brought over the popcorn and smoothed his bangs. Watching him for a moment, Elizabeth went back into the kitchen and picked up the sponge, first wiping down the shelves of the refrigerator and then the counter before starting in on the stove, recognizing sometime between scrubbing the backsplash and rotating the burners to one side to scoop up crumbs that it was a pointless thing to do.

The sponge coming to rest motionless against the bottom of the sink, she absently rotated the ring on her third finger, vision swimming with the black vests of the FBI agents who would be sent to raid their house, to paw through Paige's underwear drawer and catalog Henry's toys as if they might've left a last message coded in Legos on a green plastic board or hidden in a loopy penned note about Matthew Beeman's eyes, all of it irrelevant to her as she sat locked in a cell being interrogated, stalling to give Philip time to get the kids across the border into Canada, trying not to think of Paige and Henry in tears hundreds of miles away when he broke, with her permission, the promise they'd long ago made to one another while holding an infant Paige in a medicinal smelling hospital room.

She jumped when the doorbell rang. Exhaling, she quickly rinsed her hands, tossed the towel aside and went to answer it.

"Hey."

"Hey, sorry I'm late." Wrinkling his nose, Philip glanced at his watch.

She met his eyes and shook her head, pushing her sleeves down. "Henry . . . doesn't want to go with you guys tonight."

His face fell, posture deflating. "Why not?"

Nodding towards the sound of the TV, she let her mouth flatten out. Following him into the other room, she picked up the sponge and wiped off the island a second time, watching out of the corner of her eye as he wandered over to muss Henry's hair.

"Hey, buddy, you don't wanna come have dinner with us?"

"No." The answer muffled by the enthusiastic crunch of popcorn, Henry didn't budge from the screen. "It's game five of the Stanley Cup and the Islanders _just_ got hold. I don't wanna miss a _thing_."

Making a funny sound with his mouth, Philip slowly turned, any indication of upset quickly erased when Paige appeared.

"Hi, Dad."

Smiling, he reached over to hug her. "Hi, honey. How are you?"

He kissed the top of her head, but glanced over while her back was turned, their eyes meeting from across the living room. Elizabeth nodded and made a spooning gesture with one hand. The lines smoothed on his forehead. Pulling away, he rested a hand on Paige's shoulder.

"You know, why don't I stay here with you guys and watch the game?"

"Really?" Henry looked up hopefully for all of a second before his eyes made a nervous dart in her direction.

Staring at the three of them huddled together without her, she forced a smile even as her heart sank, more convinced than ever what they were doing was for the best.

_For all of them._

"I'll make something to eat," she announced, taking a second longer than necessary before going to the fridge to watch Paige and Henry's faces light up with perfect, unguarded grins, just the way she always wanted them to stay in the back of her mind.

Philip met her eyes, voice soft, somehow seeming to understand even without words.

"Great."

Swallowing, Elizabeth looked down, mouth threatening to waver at the corners when he nudged Henry over with an elbow and dug into the popcorn bowl.

"Scooch."

 

* * *

 

For the first time in weeks, the chime of the doorbell was followed not by the eager scrape of Henry’s chair being pushed back, Paige’s call of ‘ _I’ll get it_ ,’ or the wordless thump of feet hurrying down the stairs, only wounded silence echoing in its aftermath as she rinsed the soapy pancake griddle, wiped her hands on a dishtowel, and strode across the hallway to answer it. She hesitated just short of the door, briefly pausing to lift her chin and clear her head before reaching for the handle.

Glancing up the moment it swung open, Philip stiffened in place, clearly having expected one of the kids. He shifted the stack of moving boxes under one arm, mouth flattening in a silent greeting that gave away no particular position on the state of things between them.

“Hey.”

Hooking a thumb in one pocket, Elizabeth gestured with her elbow. “Oh good--you brought them.”

For half a second he didn’t move. A reflexive jerk in his cheek quickly smoothed, he cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah, thanks for . . . you know, _this_ , letting me pick up some stuff.”

“No, of course.” Waving one hand, she stepped back so he could come in. “I was just finishing up the dishes from breakfast. Did you . . . eat already, or--”

“Oh . . . yeah.” Glancing into the living room, he set down the boxes. “Just some cereal I picked up for the kids.” He shrugged and made a face. “ _Frosted Flakes_.”

“Oh.”

Letting out a little laugh at his tone, she rubbed her bottom lip, the silence quickly growing uncomfortable as they stood in the hallway, each waiting for the other to speak. Philip angled his head towards the stairs.

“How’re they doing?”

Meeting his eyes, she frowned and slowly nodded.

“About the same. Paige didn’t eat much at breakfast. Henry went back upstairs right away, hasn’t come out of his room.”

She waited just long enough to see his face fall before turning away. Shoulders sagging an inch, he ran a tired hand through his hair, following when she went into the kitchen. Elizabeth crouched in front of the bottom cabinet next to the sink, groping for the old water glasses lined on the back shelf. Propping the extra boxes against the island, Philip assembled the first one and set it on the counter, reaching down to take the first two glasses from her.

“Thanks.”

Standing, she smoothed her slacks and went to the living room for the previous day’s paper. Each took a sheet, crumpling newsprint in silence.

“Thought we broke the last of these years ago.” He grunted, making a face. “That birthday party for Paige in the backyard . . . the one where it started raining and we had ten _screaming_ eight-year-olds?” He shot her another look. “Like they’d never seen _water_ before?”

Nodding, she passed him a wrapped glass, something in his expression causing the corners of her mouth to curl. She stared at his profile for a few seconds and looked down, fingering the edge of the next glass.

One of their earliest household purchases, they’d come from the Woolworth’s across the street from their first apartment in a working class neighborhood, the two of them trading off pushing the shopping cart while the other searched for items on the shelves, navigating through long aisles stocked with row upon row of goods in every color, size and shape imaginable, bearing an endless variety of cutesy decorations stamped on them, without which some American housewife might otherwise forego the purchase, their lives and kitchen cupboards already overflowing with so much spoiled luxury as to make anything but a _blue_ water pitcher printed with _white_ daisies a redundancy.

He let her choose the glasses that day, and the plain brown salt and pepper shakers, as well as the green and white checked placemats they’d later set out on a rickety card table made only marginally more stable by folded paper napkins he wedged under one of the legs so their soup pot wouldn’t slide to the floor. They’d later been replaced by cheap strawberry printed glasses Paige had begged for from the grocery store and a set of heavy amber wine goblets Philip had _splurged_ on one year for the holidays, picking up the American term easily as he shrugged off any hint of guilt at watching their family drowning in the consumerism of it all.

“No,” she remembered after a minute, fingers pausing on the counter. “There were a few from breakfast that morning still in the dishwasher.”

Packing in the last glass, Philip looked down, the silence after a moment growing weighted. Elizabeth frowned and straightened.

“You’ll need something to cook with.”

Not waiting for a response, she grabbed an older frying pan and a pot off the drying rack by the sink and shoved them into his box, adding some cooking utensils and a water pitcher from the top of the fridge for good measure. “And you should take hot pads--”

“This is,” hesitating, Philip exhaled, “ _really_ great of you, but if you need this stuff--”

“No, no, no.” Shaking her head, she turned away when her chin gave an unfamiliar jerk. “And I just remembered I have some of your clothes from the hamper in the laundry room. Just a sec. Grab anything else you want.”

Downstairs she leaned against the washing machine and yanked the string for the light bulb overhead, watching it sway innocuously back and forth as her jaw slowly clenched. Blinking to clear her head, she shook out her hair and collected his stack of clothes off the utility table, on impulse grabbing an old lamp that had once resided in Henry’s room on her way back up the stairs.

The hallway was quiet when she slipped through the door, the kitchen empty. She found Philip in the living room next to the couch, a second box assembled on the coffee table, some of his books missing from the shelf. Swallowing, she set the lamp and his clothes on the kitchen counter and started forward, slowing when she caught sight of the small wooden frame in his hands.

He turned, their eyes meeting, his wrinkling a little at the corners. “You mind if I take a couple of these?”

She stared at the photograph of the four of them, faces scrubbed, smiles bright just like the Centre wanted them to appear, hiding the falsity of it, the sadness that would later consume their family, eat at them from the inside out, nothing left to devour but the empty shells they’d painted to appear like a perfect couple with perfect children living a perfect life. All of it a lie.

“No,” looking down, she nodded, “you should. I’ve got the one in the bedroom.”

The words coming out too fast at the end, she was relieved when he bent to set it in the box next to a picture of Henry and a separate one of Paige.

“They should have things around that they’re used to, you know?” He waited until she glanced up. “Make it so they won’t feel weird about coming over to my place--”

“Yeah, no,” frowning, she looked away, chest suddenly tight, “that’s--”

_“Dad.”_ Coming through the kitchen doorway, Paige immediately slowed at the sight of the boxes, brow furrowing as she stood on her tiptoes to peer inside the closest one.

Philip came around the table and reached over to give her a hug. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“What are you--?”

Elizabeth cleared her throat, resting both hands on the back of the chair. “Dad came by to pick up a few things.”

Paige poked at the edge of the box, finally looking up.

“For the apartment?”

Hand still resting on her shoulder, Philip nodded. She didn’t say anything, face falling as she first lifted out a spatula and then an old green pot holder, starting to pick at a loose thread in the corner as if perhaps by wearing it down bit by bit she might convince him to stay. Peering into the box, she chewed on the end of her thumbnail and made a face.

“That’s my old cereal bowl.”

Philip folded his arms and leaned back against the counter. “Yeah, I remember. Only _hope_ Mom and I had of getting you to eat your breakfast was if you could see the elephant picture at the bottom once you were done.” He waited until she looked over to wink. “Good thing Babar liked Cheerios.”

Clearly trying not to smile, Paige fingered the hot pad, after a moment tossing it back in the box. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her head.

“So when do we get to see it?”

Elizabeth frowned and stepped forward. “Paige, Dad just came over to--”

“I could help him unpack, though, right?” Raising an eyebrow, she looked between them, the question innocent in tone, something in its undercurrent clearly seeking out a place to assign blame, her eyes coming to settle, as had become customary in recent weeks, on _her_.

Staring back without flinching, Elizabeth waited until Philip shrugged from behind her view to flash a tight smile.

“Of course.” Turning to straighten the empty gaps in the bookshelves without looking at either of them, she swallowed before speaking. “You should check with Henry, see if he wants to come along.”

Paige made a little derisive sound under her breath, patting the flat end of the spatula against her hand. “I don’t think he wants to come.”

Elizabeth met Philip’s eyes from across the room, watching him start to push away from the counter.

“Why don’t I--”

“I’ll go,” she interrupted smoothly, brushing off her hands without another word.

Having given up over the course of weeks expecting some sign of animation or life from the door with the giant red squid scrawled across it, staged light-saber battles or the clack of Legos scattering across the floor, she strode up to it and simply knocked, waiting only a few seconds for a response both knew wasn’t coming before easing it open. He was slumped on the floor with his back to the door, tossing a small rubber ball from one hand to the other. His room having surpassed even its usual state of squalor, small toys and model spaceships had been left strewn across the floor, requiring that she pick her way over to the bed.

Sitting on the edge of it, she straightened his blankets, pulling the corners crisp and flat. “Everything okay?”

He made an undecipherable bobbing motion with his head that could’ve been intended to shake the hair from his eyes, or perhaps to further shield them, either way offering little in the form of an answer. Finished with the corners, she clasped her hands.

“Dad’s downstairs.”

Henry took a breath and let it out, still not looking at her. The ball continued to bounce from hand to hand uninterrupted, his alarm clock ticking dully on the nightstand, both of them at a loss for what to say. After a moment, Elizabeth reached over to fluff his pillow.

“Do you want to go see his apartment with Paige?”

He wiped his nose, after a long silence, whispering, “No.”

She smoothed a wrinkle in the pillowcase and rose from the bed, turning just before the door. “Henry . . . look at me.”

His shoulders curled in like a turtle seeking to collapse into its shell, hair flopping in his eyes as he propped his chin on the bed and reluctantly blinked up at her.

“I want you to pick up your room before lunch and put your things away.” She kept her voice low but firm. “You’ll feel better once you do.”

Outside she ran a tired hand through her hair and leaned against the door jamb, after a moment stepping over to absently straighten the wall hanging next to the stairs. A yarn monstrosity in earthy shades of brown and orange Philip had claimed to particularly like one year when they spotted it on vacation, all but forcing her to put it up, it was yet another off note in a home decorated at times painfully, at others impersonally. Pictures put out of people they’d never met, books written in a language she spoke every day but would never love slowly filling the shelves, knick-knacks they purchased and dusted and displayed year after year so that their neighbors might notice how ordinary and _American_ they seemed, their house had always lacked some odd, intangible quality there in Sandra Beeman’s sleekly matched furniture or the cluttering cat figurines lining table and shelf alike at Paige’s piano teacher’s house, everything about _theirs_ from the start formed on a lie.

Elizabeth swallowed and rubbed her chin, gaze drifting over the collection of artwork they’d gradually amassed over the years, pictures of dark conifer forests and lush wooded hills, of abandoned cabins and lonely, crumbling mountain ranges, a passing glance at their hallway leaving the impression they’d randomly picked one landscape after the next because they didn’t know shit about choosing modern art, the truth gradually growing clear only by standing at its center long enough to take in the whole.

That it was the one place Philip could safely look upon miles of desolate snowy fields and long winding rivers she now knew meant Tobolsk, where she could pause just before going into their bedroom each night to see leaves in every rich shade of autumn and have the smallest piece of Smolensk, remember blue skies and white, fluffy clouds over water so clear it reflected the surrounding trees like a mirror of purest truth, the one image that reminded her most of home.

Hand drifting to her neck, Elizabeth stared for a long moment and stepped forward to lift the painting from the wall.

Paige frowned as soon as she entered the kitchen. “What’s that?”

Ignoring her tone, Elizabeth balanced it on one leg and wiped a speck of dust from the frame. Philip finished closing the box on the table and came around the island, brow creasing as he stared down at it. She nodded, careful to keep her tone neutral.

“You like this one, right?”

There was a long silence. Finally taking it from her, he didn’t answer until she looked up. “Are you sure?”

She tucked her hair behind one ear and flashed him a quick smile, turning before it could become anything else.

“Absolutely.”

 

* * *

 

"Dad, will you check this one?" Knees curled up on the couch, Paige leaned over to pass the single sheet of notebook paper. "Number thirty-eight."

"That's it . . . _that's it_ . . . oh, _c'mon_."

Lifting the lid on the simmering pot of stew to give it a stir, Elizabeth shook her head, watching Philip run an exasperated hand through his hair.

Paige frowned and made a jabbing motion with her pencil. "Henry, _give it to Dad_."

" _Okay_."

"Guys, don't fight." Taking her math paper, Philip turned from the TV. "Mmm . . . square roots . . . you sure you don't want _Mom_ to go over this with you?" He scratched the end of his nose. "She's better at this sorta thing."

Smiling, Elizabeth replaced the lid, just reaching for a towel to dry her hands when Paige shrugged and fidgeted with her pencil.

"I just . . . understand it better the way you explain it.” She snuck a surreptitious glance over one shoulder, clearly hoping she hadn’t been overheard. “That’s all."

Turning so her face was obscured, Elizabeth wiped a few stray crumbs off the counter. Silent for a moment, Philip circled something and handed the sheet back.

"Look over this part again."

He bent down to tickle Henry and pushed off the couch, coming into the kitchen just as she got out the chopping board and a handful of mushrooms. Reaching around her into the drawer, he took out a second knife.

"Dinner smells good."

She met his eyes, saying nothing. They sliced mushrooms in silence. Popping one in his mouth, Philip carried the rest over to the pot and dumped them in while she washed the cutting board, raising an eyebrow in her direction when the phone rang. Hands wet and soapy, she nodded.

"Hello . . . yes, speaking . . . uh huh . . . oh, for _tomorrow_ . . . for Mrs. Kosta's class . . . orange slices for field day--"

Meeting her eyes in a question, he frowned after she did, both of them turning to the couch where Henry was trying to disappear between the cushions.

"Okay, thank you for the reminder." Hanging up the phone, he made a face and shook his head. "Henry--"

"I forgot."

Their eyes met again, this time with a familiar trace of weariness, too many lectures over the years having been handed out on the merits of _responsibility_ , most falling on deaf ears as one of them trailed a few steps behind their scatterbrained youngest child carrying forgotten lunches, thermoses, hockey pads, and once the pants he'd made it halfway to the breakfast table in a sleepy haze before realizing he was missing.

Coming to join her at the sink, Philip lowered his voice. "I can pick them up on the way back to my place--drop them off at his school in the morning."

She glanced up at him. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Shrugging, he made a face and pushed away from the counter, murmuring as he passed by, " _You're_ the one who's gonna have to find his backpack in the morning." He grabbed Henry in a bear hug, cuddled him, and launched him in her direction with a quick pop on the butt. "Go set the table and then see what else Mom needs you to do." Going back over to Paige, he plopped onto the couch at her side and hooked an arm across her shoulders. "Let's see that math one more time."

Swallowing, Elizabeth distractedly smoothed Henry's hair, whispering that he could just get out bowls and spoons so they could eat in front of the TV. She stared at Philip's profile from across the room, watched him smile as he scooted closer to help Paige, Henry reciting hockey statistics from the first half of the game to himself as he set out a stack of bowls, their family for one fleeting moment just as it had always been. Philip smiled and returned the textbook, glancing over before she could look away, forehead first creasing with mild surprise and then gradually concern when she didn't even try.

"Hey, Mom?"

Elizabeth tucked her hair behind one ear, leaning over to get the bowls to start ladling up stew. "Yeah?"

Paige stuck her elbow over the back of the couch. "Have you seen my green sweater? I can't find it anywhere."

"Come get your dinner." Handing her a bowl, she nodded to the spoons out on the table. "Have you checked all your drawers . . . in your closet?"

"Yes, and it's not anywhere." Paige paused to get a napkin. "I was going to wear it to school tomorrow."

Philip met her eyes. "And there's not another one you could wear? Haven't we bought you practically every sweater _at_ the mall?"

"Mm-hmm," Henry piped up helpfully, mouth full.

_"No,"_ she shot back, giving him a sharp kick.

"Hey, _hey_." Philip wedged in beside Henry and pointed his spoon in a threatening manner. " _No_ fighting or we all have to eat at the table."

Glancing up when she came into the room, Paige squished closer to Henry. "Come sit by me, Mom."

"The game's starting again.” Henry shoveled in another monstrous bite.

“Slow down, champ.” Managing to look away for all of two seconds before turning back to the screen, Philip gave her a brief nod and dug into his stew. "This is really great."

"Thanks." She gave a little shrug, sliding in beside Paige.

Spoons clinked against bowls, conversation falling silent, shoulders coming to slouch against the sofa cushions as dinner was finished and the dishes set aside. Looking up when an exclamation from Henry jostled Paige's elbow into hers, she caught the outline of their faces in the eerie blue glow of the television set, what fifteen years before had felt like the most inescapable of burdens she had to bear, as they stood facing the end, left her with the most crushing sense of loss.

"Oh, c'mon. _Really?_ "

Momentarily scowling at a bad call, Philip glanced over again when he noticed her looking, this time not turning away. Picking up his bowl, he nudged Henry.

"You all done?"

He followed her into the dining room, carefully peering through the doorway to make sure the kids weren't paying attention before leaning on the back of a chair.

She swallowed, not quite looking at him. "Did you pick a hotel?"

Philip slowly nodded. "Yeah. Melton Inn. Tuscarora State Forest."

The statement neutral, silence quickly descended in its wake.

"I already packed their bags. They're in the garage if you have time to put them in the car tonight." She paused. "If they freak out about the surprise family getaway, just say, 'we all need a little spontaneity in our lives _.'_ " He forced a smile, the expression hollow, something in the way he did it immediately making her feel ten times worse. Looking down, she frowned. "Where are you dropping the tape?"

"They're picking the car up from the usual garage." Voice unnaturally calm, he offered no sign of protest.

She continued, watching him carefully. "If I make it out of the meeting with the colonel, I'll be there by nightfall. We'll have a great weekend. Back home by Monday."

"Yeah." He held her smile for a few seconds, any hint of levity slowly draining from both their faces.

Lips briefly trembling, she cleared her throat. "If not . . . we're still on the same page."

Philip nodded, this time not quite meeting her eyes. "I take them to Ottawa and contact the Rezidentura."

She shook her head, hearing it again in his inflection, the subtle note of unvoiced dissent. Careful in choosing her words, she looked down. "I know it's not what any of us thinks is ideal, but," she watched his fingers flex against the back of the chair, "there aren't a lot of choices then, Philip."

Abruptly jerking away, he pulled the door closed, voice low and urgent.

"There's one other choice we can make _right_ now, because who cares _what_ the Centre ordered, all they care about is that both missions get done."

Elizabeth started to shake her head, suddenly understanding, but he cut her off, jaw clenched tight.

" _I_ will take the colonel and _you_ pick up the tape--"

"Philip--"

_"--because Paige and Henry need you."_

She pressed her lips together, nose burning, tears threatening to form. Philip paused, letting the weight of it sink in, knowing he had her.

"They _love_ you. And I get it. I _get it_. You see us together and you think," he gestured with one hand, "it _seems_ easy. That's not it. You're their _mother_."

She stood motionless, staring at the edge of the rug, unable to risk breathing, the statement in every way the opposite of the one Gregory had casually tossed out in the car-- _C'mon, let's get outta here, just you and me_ \--words he'd never meant to hurt her leaving the silence that followed thick with the implication her role in Paige and Henry’s lives was insignificant. Trivial. Having neither importance nor any particular value. That it would be of no lasting consequence to them either way should she come home or simply disappear one night never to return. As if that was the way he had always seen her.

Eyes beginning to water, she glared up at Philip, hating him for seeking to do the opposite, purposefully play upon her guilt for ever considering leaving them behind, knowing how it crushed her to have to do it, unable to fully feel it knowing he wanted her to let him take her place.

"I _know_ that."

The words came out harshly and with a shaky edge, confirmation he knew he'd gotten to her coming when he simply folded his arms, voice softening.

"Right."

She focused on the same spot on the rug, seconds ticking past. "We have to follow orders."

"No, we don't--"

"Philip, please . . . don't fight me on this." A tear streaking past the edge of her nose, she quickly swiped it away, their eyes coming to meet as she shook her head.

For a minute neither moved. She watched resignation enter his features, linger in his eyes and in the set of his mouth, voice weighted with something else she couldn’t quite name when he finally spoke.

"Okay, fine.” He shrugged sadly. “I won't fight you." Staring at her a few seconds more, he pushed open the door to the kitchen, calling out to the kids, "I'm headed home, guys."

She swallowed and blinked once he was gone, Paige and Henry's voices echoing in from the living room, unprompted.

"Love you, Dad."

"I love you more."

"No, I love _you_ more."

A ritual that had started during a difficult phase dropping Paige off at kindergarten in the mornings without a loud, embarrassing display of tears and pleading, it had later come to include Henry, a spontaneous battle of _I love you’s_ that somehow always seemed to naturally erupt between the three of them in moments she had just left the room.

Staring at the spot on the carpet long enough for her face to clear, Elizabeth lifted her chin, wiped her eyes and went back into the kitchen to finish rinsing out their bowls.

 

* * *

 

_"Mom.”_

Her name burst out somewhere halfway between a shout and a grunt, the indignant huff at the end grating on her last nerve as it echoed down the hallway. Grimacing, Elizabeth shifted the second bag of groceries to the arm precariously balancing the first, trying to free the other to shut the door to the garage.

_“Mom.”_ Bursting into the hall, Paige flipped her hair over one shoulder like she was auditioning for a conditioner commercial and pointed to the living room. “ _Henry_ took _my_ keys to Dad’s place and he _won’t_ give them back.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, struggling not to drop both bags when her purse started to slip. “Come take these and start putting them away.”

Paige made a face, but reluctantly complied. Stepping out of her wet shoes by the door, Elizabeth hung up her coat and shook out her hair, taking a minute to peel off her socks and roll her jeans up at the ankles.

“You can leave the hamburger out on the counter. I’m making spaghetti tonight.” She paused and frowned over the sound of Henry’s cartoons blaring from the other room, waiting a few seconds. “You hear me?”

The refrigerator door slammed in response. Lowering her head, she quickly straightened.

Paige didn’t look up when she entered the kitchen, tossing the bread carelessly by the notepad and putting the can of coffee on the wrong shelf. She let out a long sigh. “ _Now_ will you listen to--”

“No.” Placing both hands flat on the counter, Elizabeth took a breath and stared her straight in the eye. “Not if you’re going to talk like that. Lower your voice. You’re almost fourteen and no one will take you seriously if you go around yelling and slamming things.”

Her cheeks went pink, mouth paling in anger. Looking away, she drummed fingers on her arm and jutted out her jaw, finally shaking her head, voice slightly lower. “Fine. Can you _please_ tell Henry to give me back my--”

“Slower.” Eyes locked on hers, Elizabeth didn’t so much as blink. “Think it through first. What you’re going to say and how you’re going to say it.”

Thunder rattled the window over the sink. Staring up at her, Paige swallowed.

“Henry . . . took the keys Dad gave me and buried them in the backyard.” She shrugged. “He won’t tell me where.”

Elizabeth studied her face. “Better.” Reaching over to take the milk carton, she opened the fridge. “Mistakes happen when you lose control. Remember that.”

Paige sighed, tapping fingers impatiently on the back of the nearest chair. “Mom . . . my _keys_.”

Ignoring the edge forming in her tone, Elizabeth marched across the room, flicked off the Batman cartoon and turned to face an indignant Henry. Socked feet propped on the coffee table, he had one arm buried in a jumbo bag of Cheetos that were only supposed to be for the weekends, orange cheese dust stuck to his lips and shirt, hair falling in his eyes as he sat up and glared at her.

“ _Mom,_ it’s almost _over_.”

“Where are your sister’s keys?”

Silence descended. A minute passed, a familiar distance clouding his eyes as he shook his head apathetically and flopped against the couch cushions.

“I don’t know.”

An answer no one in the room had any particular cause to believe, there was something in its delivery that caused the hair at the back of her neck to stand on end, his manner unruffled and smooth, the opposite in every way from Paige’s disappointing lack of self-discipline, the utter absence of compunction about lying to someone’s face a trait that was innate, and not one he’d gotten from _her_. Jaw tightly clenched, she stared down at him, resolving to stamp every last bit of it from him if it was the last thing she ever did.

“Henry, are you lying to me?”

He didn’t respond, eyes focused somewhere past her ear, his indifference all the more maddening. Nodding to herself, she folded her arms.

“Stand up.” Walking over to the back door, she opened it and gestured out to the rainy lawn. “Bring me your sister’s keys. How long it takes is up to you.”

He went without protest, even closing the door behind him. Rubbing her forehead, Elizabeth threw the paper bags in the trash can and got out a pot for the noodles.

“He’s not doing anything.” Having pulled the curtain back at the corner, Paige frowned. “He’s just . . . sitting there.”

Elizabeth lowered her head. “Go start your homework.”

“But Henry--”

“I’ll keep an eye on him.” Voice softer, she shook her head and shut off the water, nodding towards the stairs. “Go on.”

The kitchen once again quiet, she chopped onions and garlic for the sauce, going over to the sink to rinse off two fat tomatoes and peek out the curtain at Henry’s progress. She found him sitting cross-legged by the fence surrounding the pond, shoulders hunched and elbows propped on his knees, rain soaking through his plaid flannel shirt and dripping from the ends of his hair. Closing her eyes, Elizabeth gripped the edge of the sink, straightened, and leaned over to turn the heat down under the burner.

Henry didn’t look up as she approached, not when she stood beside him, and not when she draped the coat over his shoulders, small, cold fingers emerging to draw it tighter the only sign it was appreciated. Sitting down beside him, she lifted her chin and wiggled her bare toes in the wet grass, taking a long, cool breath of the rainy air. After a moment she looked down.

“Henry, after my parents were gone, things were,” pausing she stared out at the pond, the surface of the water clouded by the spatter of tiny droplets, almost completely obscured, “ _hard_ for me for a long time. I missed them, so much, and I--”

She bit her lip and nodded, after a beat, continuing. “Sometimes you have to be strong and just . . . find a way to keep _going_ , no matter what happens.” Reaching over to touch his back, she watched rain slowly drip from the ends of his hair to slide in rivulets down his cheek. “Henry, do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

He blinked, mouth beginning to quaver, eyes growing glassy with tears. “Are you and Dad getting a divorce?”

“What?” Frowning, she shook her head. “No, we’re . . . who told you that--?”

He shrugged and leaned down to fiddle with the dirty lace of one sneaker. Swallowing, Elizabeth studied his profile, at a loss for what to say, Henry, the child she’d never quite understood, the odd one, the misfit, the baby it had taken her longest to come to terms with, the one she admitted to Zhukov she hadn’t decided about, the pregnancy she very nearly ended, staring at the pale, shapeless oval of her bare stomach morning after morning in the mirror while Philip was in the shower, trying to work up the courage to go through with the termination, twice going so far as to start coding the message to signal for a doctor to complete the procedure, twice being stopped by a force beyond her control, her own body betraying her as she struggled through a fog of nausea and exhaustion to correctly finish the math.

Only when Philip found her curled around the commode on the bathroom floor the second time and carried her to bed, brought her saltine crackers and ginger ale with a hooked straw, mopped a cool washrag over her face and asked in a soft voice marked with pity, infinite patience and more than a little sadness if there was anything she wanted to tell him, did she finally relent, sensing from the look in his eyes that he’d known for some time, had simply been waiting for her to be ready to say the words.

Henry, who’d slowly drifted ever further away from the moment he left her womb, Philip’s in looks, in personality and in soul, gravitating towards him even quicker than Paige as soon as he could toddle around in diapers with his matted stuffed bear in tow, who chattered enthusiastically at breakfast about fast cars and spacemen and rocket ships, cartoons and hockey and junk food and every other aspect of a life as foreign to her as _him_. Henry, who she gradually came to love in a soft, separate place from stronger, surer Paige, who she nursed through long nights of earache and a bad case of the chicken pox the neighbor’s kid brought home from first grade, who ran to her first when he skinned his knees and couldn’t reach the sink to wash them, whose grubby arms wormed their way around her neck before she could even get the Band-aids secured in place. Henry, who rushed home that day only really wanting _her_.

She turned to stare out at the water, mouth sinking ever lower at the corners, dragged down by the admission neither wanted to be the first to make, to do so the only way to claw a path out from a hole too deep to see its edges. Taking a breath, she slowly nodded.

“Sometimes I miss Dad too.”

He didn’t answer, chin still propped on one knee, mouth sad and unwavering. After a moment she rose and brushed off her pants.

“Come on. Let’s go inside.” Waiting until he stood, she straightened his coat and combed fingers through his hair, steering him towards the house. “I want you to go down to the laundry room and take all this wet stuff off. There’s a load of clothes in the dryer you can change int--”

She stopped short when arms were flung around her waist, clinging tight enough to hurt. Wrapping him in an uncertain hug, she pressed a kiss to the wet top of his head, Henry, silly, mischievous, impulsive, squid drawing, chocolate loving _Henry_ , who she’d kept only by the very best of mistakes, and who she wouldn’t have given up now for anything in the world.

Sniffling, he pulled away from her and wiped his nose on one sleeve before running into the house, leaving her alone on the rainy lawn with a forgotten coat to pick up off the grass and a hug worth a hundred buried sets of keys.

 

* * *

 

"Mom, I looked _everywhere_ and I can’t find it."

Staring blankly out the kitchen window, Elizabeth flinched at the sound of Paige's voice, quickly composing her face and shutting off the water.

"Hurry up, Henry."

Backpack slung over one shoulder, Paige appeared by her elbow and grabbed both their lunches, eyebrow raised expectantly. "Mom . . . my sweater?"

Elizabeth paused for a second to study her face, a lump forming in her throat as she reached up to tuck her hair back. "I'm . . . sure you'll find it soon. C'mon. We're going to be late."

The ride in was silent, the kids staring out opposite windows while she drove. Pulling up to Henry's school first, she swallowed and blinked, pressing her lips together in preparation to turn to the backseat when the car door jerked open, Henry darting out like a puppy who had just sighted the mail truck and hurrying after a group of boys.

_"Bye, Mom."_

"No, Henry, wai--"

She fell silent when Paige frowned at her in the rearview mirror, taking one last look at Henry's backpack disappearing through the school doors.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It’s nothing." Shaking her head, she pulled away from the curb. They rode for a minute before she glanced back. "Dad's picking you both up today so I want you to make sure you're out front on time. No last second plans with your friends." She raised an eyebrow in the mirror. "You hear me?"

" _Yes_ , I hear you."

Tone skating a fine line between obedient and sullen, Paige crossed her arms and slumped in the seat, not saying anything else as they made the short drive over to the junior high. Leaning forward as they approached the curb, she hooked an arm through her backpack and reached for the door just as Henry had done.

"Bye, Mo--"

"Paige, wait a minute." The engine still running, Elizabeth turned to stare over the seat at her and took a deep breath, slowly nodding. "I love you."

Brow furrowing deeper by the second, Paige shook her head. "I love you too . . . Mom, _what's wrong_? Is everything okay?"

She allowed herself one final glimpse and turned to face the street, forcing what would likely be one of the last of many smiles she didn't really feel. "Of course, sweetheart. Everything's fine. Remember not to be late for Dad."

Clearly not believing her, Paige stared a moment longer and climbed out of the car. Elizabeth watched her go--posture straight if a little uncertain, shoulders thin and angular hunched against the wind, hair ruffling long and childlike where it hung loose down her back--wondering if her mother had once assessed her in the same way as she crossed the train platform alone in Smolensk carrying nothing but a single suitcase, hoped she was ready to go off into the world without her, tried to hide her own fears as they quietly said goodbye.

Philip was already bent over his desk, back to the door. He glanced up when she entered. "Hey.”

“Hey.”

“How were the kids this morning?"

"Fine." Dropping her purse on the desk with a thump, she folded her arms and leaned against it. "I made them pancakes and bacon."

Not missing the brief quaver in her voice, he slowly nodded, searching her face.

"What happened?"

Elizabeth looked down, fingers skittering nervously over her arms for a few seconds before she blew out her breath and bit her lip, facing the ceiling in an attempt to keep the well of tears from spilling over.

"Henry . . . left before I could say goodbye--he just darted out of the car."

Philip sighed and lowered his head. "I’m sorry. Sometimes he does that."

"Yeah." Blinking when moisture trickled past the edge of her nose, she squinted her eyes shut and dug in her purse for a tissue. "So, I packed clean underwear for him . . . you'll make sure he changes them every day, brushes his teeth?"

Falling silent, Philip nodded, their eyes locking for one long, sad moment across the room. Abruptly looking down, she swallowed.

"I'm gonna get some coffee. Can I warm yours up?"

Studying her face a few seconds more, he handed her his cup. Hand shaking a little, she refilled it and poured one for herself, the clock overhead seeming to tick in a perpetual countdown as she fumbled with the flimsy metal trapdoor on the sugar.

Philip glanced up. "Thanks."

She nodded, staring at his back once he turned, listening for the familiar soft slurp as he took a first tentative sip of hot coffee too quickly instead of waiting for it to cool,

Philip, with whom she’d been partnered for almost twenty years, trained with and worked beside, sending faxes and selling endless travel packages by day, coding messages and relaying information to Moscow by night. Philip, who silently handed her slips of paper with men’s names and contact information printed on them, who said nothing when she returned to their bedroom late at night and tolerated her moodiness the following day, taking the anger she had silenced while filthy hands groped her, disgust choked back until she got to the car and could tear off the wig and pop in a stick of gum to erase the taste still lingering in her mouth. Philip, who weeks later quietly measured out a dose of antibiotics for each of them from their supply in the storage locker without comment or blame, to try to determine which one of them it had come from all but pointless, a simple reality they lived with when they were sent out by the Centre time after time.

Philip, who she’d lived with for most of her adult life, made thousands of breakfasts, lunches and dinners, washed and folded his underwear, picked up his socks, sent to the grocery store for milk and to the drugstore to buy her tampons. Philip, who she fought with night and day, grumbling battles over who was hogging the covers, who’d gotten toothpaste on the counter, and his annoying habit of licking the top of the syrup bottle when she made them pancakes.

Philip, with whom she’d had two babies, coaxed them into taking bottles at all hours of the night and bounced them until they burped the contents back up all over their clothes, read countless stories and thrown birthday parties in their backyard where together they watched their grinning American child turn another year older over a messy, frosting-covered cake with the requisite candles, presents and balloons. Philip, who she’d pushed away countless times, never entirely sure if she wanted to slap him or wrap her arms around his neck tightly as she could, making him promise he would never let her go.

Philip, who she would probably never see again.

He looked up when he reached over for a new file, frowning at the sight of her still and motionless, facing in his direction. "You all right?"

She opened her mouth to speak and quickly shut it. "No . . . _yes_. Absolutely."

Flashing him a smile that barely lasted a second, she turned back to her desk and opened to the page of hotel records she'd been checking off the day before. They worked in silence for the better part of half an hour, pages flipping, keys clacking quietly from the computer on his desk, the weight of everything unsaid between them knotting ever tighter in her chest until she could barely breathe.

"Mr. Philip?" They both looked up when Stavos stuck his head into the room. "I have the singles resort itinerary up on the screen. It wants approval."

"All right." Standing, Philip followed Stavos around the corner, coming to stand just outside the office window.

Fingers shaking where they gripped the pen, Elizabeth lifted her eyes to study his profile through the blinds, watching him nod and point to the screen. Only when he happened to glance over did he notice she was staring. For a long moment, neither moved, their eyes locked, all the air seeming to vacate her chest when he swallowed and turned back to the computer screen.

Elizabeth looked down, heart thumping miserably, tight, low breaths doing nothing to calm it.

Philip, to whom she might never have another chance to say all the things she needed to tell him, to put things right between them, words failing to form the moment they stood in a room together, fear, anger or stubbornness choking them in her throat.

She went through the motions of finishing with the records while waiting for him to come back, going to the computer to print out a summary page when a few minutes passed and he still hadn’t.

The main office was quiet. Frowning, she tore off the printout and leaned around the corner.

"Where's Philip?"

Busy filling out forms, Stavos barely looked up. "Oh, he said he had to run and he wanted me to give you this."

Stomach jerking into a knot, she took the envelope and hurried back inside, fumbling to open it, some part of her already knowing what it would contain even before she saw his familiar block writing on the page.

_I DID IT THE WAY I WANTED. DON’T FORGET THE PICK UP. SEE YOU LATER, I HOPE. I LOVE YOU, --P_

Fingers tightening, she lowered the paper and lifted her chin, turning to stare at the door in the direction he'd gone.

 

* * *

 

“Prince was arrested.”

Wasting no effort on smiles or false pleasantries no one else would overhear, Claudia slid in beside her on the wide church pew, drowning her in a fog of mothballs and a cheap perfume applied liberally enough to make her eyes water, perfect, if nothing else, for dissuading the impulse to hug.

_“Shit.”_ Whispering it, Elizabeth turned to face her. “Any idea how the FBI got on to him?”

“Not FBI--local police.” Claudia’s expression didn’t budge, aided by a not insubstantial layer of makeup. “Failure to pay child support.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, the news somehow coming as little surprise. “How many days before the Feds start looking into an incarcerated Department of Defense employee with a high-level security clearance and a _felony_ charge hanging over his head?”

Unfazed, Claudia glanced around the church, not quite looking at her. “All we need is three days until you meet with the colonel.”

She shook her head. “Even if the meeting _wasn’t_ a set-up before, it’s _insane_ to go into it now with Prince in custody. He could be broken with a feather duster.”

“I know you and Philip radioed the Centre to confirm the orders for the meeting.” Leaning forward like a viper preparing to strike, Claudia blinked, control briefly flickering as anger broke through. “I also know they confirmed them for you. What confuses me is why you went around me. Do you _really_ think I’d make something like this up with the security of our nation at stake?”

Elizabeth made a sound under her breath. A laughable statement after everything she’d done, arranging their interrogation, setting Philip up with Irina, manipulating them time after time like puppets on strings, it took everything she had not to sneer in her painted-on face, unwilling to provide her the satisfaction she’d gotten under her skin.

“Is that what you care about--our nation?” She gave a careless shrug. “I haven’t figured that out.”

“I do, and the orders to meet with the colonel were confirmed, as you were told--”

“That was before Prince was arrested.”

Claudia’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t see Moscow changing their minds.”

“--Martha, Mrs. Hanson, I’d like you to meet my mother, Alexandra and my sister, Jennifer.”

They quickly rose. Forcing a smile, Elizabeth met Philip’s eyes from behind the others, fighting to ignore Martha’s insipid little giggles as she wrinkled her nose in a far too cutesy way for a woman her age and reached for Claudia.

“Is it okay if I hug you?”

“Welcome to the family, Martha.” Adopting an appropriately nasal tone, Claudia thumped her back. “You’re exactly as Clark described.”

Elizabeth played along with the smallest possible smile when Martha turned her way and flashed a wide, toothy grin that made her nose appear even more prominent, allowing herself to be drawn into a brief, awkward hug.

“Hi.”

She pulled away quickly, smile dissolving the moment Martha’s back was turned. Little had changed from what she remembered the night Philip brought home the surveillance file almost a year earlier, before Timoshev, before Stan Beeman. Perhaps ten pounds heavier than the photographs from back then, the weight was starting to show in her face, the same dowdy dress, unflattering mannerisms and naïve desperation that had marked her as a promising target present as ever as she blinked ecstatically, blithely ignoring every warning sign right before her eyes.

Martha’s mother stepped forward in a cloud of hairspray, looked the three of them over and proudly gushed, “I can see the family resemblance.”

Ignoring the lake of sugary sweetness thick enough to choke them all, Claudia merely smiled and stiffly patted Philip’s shoulder, all of them sporting fake American grins to match the Hansons.

“That’s what people say.”

“Clark Westerfeld and Martha Hanson?”

“Yes.”

Martha turned and made another of her faces, putting out a hand and waggling fingers expectantly in a way any man would’ve instantly grown to hate. “You ready?”

“Of course.”

Elizabeth looked down, something in the private, familiar _softness_ of the way he said it causing a dull ache to form in her chest even knowing it was an act, part of her wanting to rip the bouquet from Martha’s fat, pampered hands and tear the vocal cords from her pale, pasty neck. Smiling, Philip took her hand and led her into the church as they all silently followed. They assembled in a row at the front, Claudia by Philip’s side, leaving her standing odd and slightly out of place at the very end.

“An oath is both a statement for the present and a promise to the future. It is the means by which we humans tell each other, ‘I’m in this for the long haul.’”

Swallowing, Elizabeth looked down, after a moment turning to stare at the back of Philip’s head, at the false, messy whorls of a wiry gray toupee and the dark scrawling curls close to the bottom where it became his own hair, the familiar shape of the bottom of his neck, the few moles scattered above his collar, the place she’d sometimes hesitantly rubbed after long missions until his muscles softened and his posture began to relax, strain he refused to burden her with showing under her fingertips as she gently coaxed his muscles to unknot.

The kids asleep, they filled the coffee pot for the next morning and shut off the lights, poured two shots of vodka and clinked glasses in silence, downed them, put the bottle away and rolled over to separate sides of the bed without a hint of the affection some part of her knew he silently craved, without the spooning or cuddling she’d expressly forbidden, even gestures of companionship carefully meted out that they might not be misconstrued, the personal cost of such an action coming at a price she was unwilling to pay.

“Do you take this man to be your husband and partner, in good times and bad, till death do you part?”

“I do.”

Elizabeth kept her eyes straight ahead, something in the wording niggling in a place she hadn’t expected it. The surety and conviction in Martha’s voice even as she threw her life away, promising herself to a man who had told her nothing but the most blatant of lies filling her with a mixture of pity and scorn, there was also in some small way . . . _envy_ , her absolute willingness to take the leap and risk being blindly hurt _fearless_ in a way it was hard not to look upon with some measure of admiration and regret.

There was an accidental bump at her elbow as the ceremony drew to a close. Stomach giving a brief jerk when Martha flashed another fanged grin, scrunched up her face and leaned in to be kissed, she quickly looked away, turning to smile at the minister.

“It was beautiful.”

She hung back once it was time for photographs, watching _Alexandra_ usher everyone else outside. Folding her arms, she slowly wandered up the aisle alone, after a moment sliding into an empty pew.

_I’m in this for the long haul._

Frowning, she touched the edge of her mouth and squinted her eyes shut, unexpectedly bothered after so many years by the image of someone else reaching for his hand, someone else beaming a bright smile as she pledged herself to him, making the commitment _she_ never had. Dedication a principle she’d long valued above all others, the promise of oneself going forward, she’d sworn it without hesitation to her country and the cause, vowing never to do so for anyone or anything else, what at the time had felt a pledge steeped in principle, as she stared at the wreckage of their marriage, seemed one clouded by the subtle haze of fear.

An obnoxious laugh from the back of the church caused her to look up. Lip threatening to curl, she watched Martha hand off her bouquet to her new _husband_ with a wag of one finger and lean over to be kissed before dashing off to change, Philip’s expression shifting from a perfect mirror of her giddy excitement to barely veiled annoyance as soon as her back was turned. Face falling flat, he sighed and checked his watch.

Elizabeth rose from the pew and went to join him.

“Congratulations.” She waited until he turned, the two of them exchanging a look. “It was touching.”

He made a sound under his breath.

“No, it was.” She shrugged. “I didn’t expect it to be.” Watching him for a moment, she nodded, faltering a little. “You and I were never really married.”

A truth that once would’ve opened a wound, invited protest, debate, or denial, they simply stared back at one another, to argue it pointless, what they hadn’t freely chosen together hand in hand never theirs to claim.

Philip shook his head, voice quiet.

“No.”

She looked away. “It’s funny. I know they’re just words people say.” Hesitating only briefly, she forced the question out. “Do you think things would’ve been different between us if we would have said them?”

She held her breath, both needing to hear the answer and somehow dreading it, afraid to ask whether it would’ve taken something so simple or if she still would’ve seen him the same way, rejected any possibility of _them_ and turned to Gregory, an ended relationship she couldn’t help but look back on as somehow sadder, empty, one that had seemed safe at the time perhaps because it promised never to become anything more, as damaged from the start as she’d been in seeking it out.

He swallowed and shook his head, eyes sad.

“I don’t know.”

Looking down, he fiddled with the bouquet and slowly turned, leaving her to stare at his back as he quietly walked away.

 

* * *

 

For what seemed an eternity she didn’t move, breathing measured and low, a mixture of grief, anger, shock, fury and regret pounding harder every second in her chest as she finally allowed the note to fall and covered her mouth with one hand. Clearing her face, she stuffed it in the envelope and grabbed her purse and coat, frowning as she reached for the picture of the four of them resting on the edge of the desk.

Henry, whose hair Philip had carefully slicked off to one side so for at least the space of an hour they’d be able to see his eyes, bribing him with the promise of ice cream to make sure it stayed that way, his smile for the camera beaming with the secret promise of chocolate.

Paige, who’d waged a long, painful battle with her that morning over which sweater she was allowed to wear, the only other person in the photograph who’d particularly cared what clothes she put out for them, jaw still set with a hint of stubbornness and strength even in defeat that couldn’t help but draw a note of maternal pride.

Her own face between them, smiling, if a little self-consciously, knowing _this_ was the picture they were going to send back, the first one her mother had received since Henry was still in diapers, nervous how it would turn out, wondering if it would make her proud to see them despite the way she knew they’d been raised.

And Philip sitting next to her with a half-smirk on his face, the same one he usually flashed the kids at breakfast in flannel pajama bottoms and his favorite ratty t-shirt with the hole in the armpit right before reaching over to steal the syrup bottle. She’d rapped fingers stiffly on the counter upon first seeing it when she went to pick up the prints at the mall with Paige and Henry in tow, annoyed that he couldn’t have managed anything more serious. Philip, whose eyes seemed to twinkle at her from the photograph as if some part of him had known even back then that their life together, the one she made a point of privately reminding him at least once a week was just for show as they argued over the kids’ allowance or his habit of dumping too much detergent in with the wash, would one day come to matter to her, that _he_ would, just as she always had to him.

Taking one last look at each of their faces, she set the picture down and snapped off the light. Stavos and Barb fell silent when she passed by.

“I have meetings. I’ll call in later. See you tomorrow.”

She left the car at the safe house, boarded a bus and sat in back, staring out the window at the clear, cold day. He would just be getting to the park, preparing to sit down for a meeting he should never have taken, making a futile attempt to check blind spots, cut-off points, any FBI team in the area planted too far in advance to spot, hiding in vans and watching from adjacent buildings, waiting for the okay to move in.

Swallowing, Elizabeth pushed her sunglasses up her nose, the red hair in the window's reflection reminding her faintly of Paige.

_Did you need to see something in him that wasn't really there?_

Philip, who hadn't balked when she truly needed him, not with Zhukov, and not with Gregory, everything he’d gone through to get the bug planted in Gaad’s office done solely that it might protect _her_. The one person she could always count on to have her back even when they weren't together, he was the one who had always seen her as the whole, not just as an officer or as his partner, but as the sum of her parts, building her up just as he built their family up where they were weakest, drawing the four of them back together, _love_ a pale, flimsy word that couldn’t be trusted the first time it left his lips, at its second offering, given in such a way that it had been proven unquestionably the truth, trading his life for hers so she could escape with Paige and Henry in his place.

She got off the bus at Fairfax, buttoned her coat, and stuck her hands in her pockets. The bus pulled away with a cloud of hot exhaust that burned her eyes and stirred dust through her hair. Squinting, she kept moving forward at a slow pace, casually making note of the people at the stop, of the cars parked nearby, any changes at the houses on both sides of the street.

Still moving slowly, she glanced out of the corner of one eye, noting a maintenance van off to the right, careful to check the number of cars in a driveway to her left, more than they'd counted before.

She passed one parked car, fingers tensed around the keys in her pocket, eyes scanning the thick pockets of foliage scattered all along the road. Some thirty yards from the car, she caught the sound of someone pulling onto the street behind her. Slowing, she turned.

Even at that distance she could see the tension in the way his shoulders were hunched, the way his hands gripped the wheel, expression indiscernible but unnecessary, the fact that he was there at all bringing a prickling rush to the back of her neck.

_You know that feeling, that tingle, when you know it's about to go bad--_

She stopped breathing, time seeming to slow, Henry’s arms clinging so tight around her waist as they stood together in the rain she could never for a second have doubted his love, his bony elbows propped on her kitchen counter as he grinned infectiously and tried to sneak a finger of chocolate frosting from a mixing bowl, Paige lowering her voice to confide a secret crush on Matthew Beeman one night as they loaded strawberry painted glasses into the dishwasher, then sitting bravely on the edge of the bed in her pajamas while they pierced her ears, Philip kissing the back of her neck on a lazy Sunday morning, winking at her across their messy breakfast table with infinite love in his eyes when she glared at him for licking the syrup, sharing a private smile of relief over the top of toddler Paige's head when she _finally_ finished her Cheerios, Babar and his fistful of colorful balloons appearing at the bottom of the bowl to cheer her on.

The car slowed as it approached. He leaned across the seat and threw open her door.

_"Get in."_

Jumping inside, she slammed the door closed just as she felt him reach around to protectively encircle her back.

"Go."

 

 


	13. The Colonel

It was, out of every transgression committed against one another, perhaps the singular moment she most wished she could've taken back.

There was a jerk as the car pulled to a stop. Her head bumped the back of the seat, cheek briefly registering the cool brush of leather. She heard her name being called, tried to summon the energy to make her mouth move, and failed. The hand holding hers in place at the right of her navel vanished, leaving the back of her fingers suddenly cold, their underside greeted with an insidious trickle of warmth.

Gritting her teeth, she pressed down harder to stop it, blinking back tears at the sudden, nauseating rush of pain. It was as her vision briefly cleared that she caught a glimpse of his profile where he stood in the phone booth, face haggard, the receiver gripped through a bloody handkerchief, the span of seconds where she caught the look of sickened dread in his eyes before he hung up and quickly erased it the moment in which she truly began to feel afraid.

It was something in the way he’d said it. Hollowness forming uninvited in her gut even as she stood in their kitchen staring impassively back at him over a bowl of bright, innocent cherries Paige had asked her to pick up at the store, it was, of all their innumerable mistakes, _this_ that somehow felt most terrible, what in the vast accounting of everything they might now never get to say to one another was made only worse by his bashful admission he'd been _surprised how pretty she was._ Philip, from whom prying personal information was only marginally less difficult than coaxing it from the unmoving lips of a sphinx.

The car door opened and slammed. He tilted her chin towards him, examining her eyes only briefly before starting the engine, the hand that returned to cover hers and apply more pressure making her whimper from the pain.

“They’re getting a doctor.” His voice was low. “We’re fifteen minutes out. Just hang on.”

She swallowed and tried again to speak, the croak that was meant to be his name coming out barely louder than a whimper.

_The first time we met, I saw you were disappointed. Like now, in your eyes. I could see you were hoping for someone else. That I would be . . . someone else._

They pulled onto the entrance ramp, seams in the concrete driving into her gut like the blade of a knife through the slippery pressure of their linked fingers. She blinked again, staring up at his face.

"Philip."

He jerked his head in her direction. Frowning when the car swerved a little, he immediately turned his attention back to the freeway.

"Shh-shh.” His mouth angled down at the corners. “It's gonna be okay."

Her eyes slowly grew heavier despite every effort to keep them open, some part of her tempted to reach up and touch the edge of his cheek, remind him with a sideways look that she knew him too well after so many years together to believe that lie, that she could read the crease of his mouth like a book and there was no point in masking the fear they both knew was there, the sight of it for only the second time in twenty years flooding her with immeasurable regret and unexpected warmth.

"Philip."

This time it was so faint she couldn't hear it herself over the angry drone of traffic, lips barely able to form the all too familiar syllables of his name, one she'd spat at him in fury, shouted across the house when the hall toilet overflowed while she was trying to get Henry's overalls fastened on the first day of preschool, and stopped just short of whispering against the ticklish spot below his ear as the rhythmic push of his hips into hers caused the breath to catch in her throat.

The only thing she had ever called him, that particular mandate from the Centre was one she hadn’t dared question, _Philip and Elizabeth_ , not even for half a minute allowed to regard each other as anything else, for her to consider the man standing before her as _Mikhail_ , instead hating her assigned partner purely and completely from the second they’d met as she would've any American, stopping him cold on Zhukov's carpet with a dark look and an icy English _'Pleased to meet you.'_

That he could clearly read her disappointment evident in his stilted _'Likewise'_ decades before he would ever put the sentiment into words, it only steeled her determination not to give an inch to the man who was to become the face of all her grievances, _Elizabeth Jennings_ , who'd resented her husband long before they would ever meet for the crime of being unbothered by what they were required to do when the thought of it made her skin crawl, expected to cook his meals and clean his house, spread her legs for him and bear his children, all on the Centre's orders, and all without the slightest noise of protest, to do any less not only unpatriotic, but shamefully weak. Who'd hurt him and hated him, and sworn never to let him see her cry, Zhukov's words holding a painful measure of truth as they silently faced off across his office in Moscow.

_Most of all, you were chosen because of your fear. Surrender for you would be an act of suicide._

"We're nearly there."

She struggled to open her eyes, head now slumped against the car door. He was blurry in her vision, the road bumpy as they pulled off the freeway, the pain unbearable in her stomach. _Philip_ , the only one who'd ever really asked what _she_ wanted, who hadn't seen her as anything other than herself, who’d set her free even knowing it might mean she would never return.

Staring up into his face framed by the too-bright azure blue of the American sky, she closed her eyes, wishing, not for the first time, that _Elizabeth Jennings_ might finally be allowed to die. The one who’d been angry, who’d been hurt, the one who couldn't allow herself to love him, gone. She would fade away as silently as she’d come, the last of her pain left behind in a country she wanted no part of and had never loved, any remnant of her misery dead as Zhukov and Gregory and all the others they'd lost along the way.

She vaguely registered the engine shutting off. The slam of a door. There was a moment of panic when the hard surface beneath her cheek disappeared, her hand starting to flail for all of half a second as she began to fall before she was scooped into strong arms she didn't have to open her eyes to recognize. Head pillowed on Philip’s shoulder, she tried and failed to speak as he carried her towards the sound of voices familiar and unfamiliar, everything gradually fading away.

* * *

The next thing she became aware of was the texture of rough sheets against her skin. The voices were gone, the room still. To draw each breath a struggle through the thick haze trying to force her under, she knew even before she could form his name that Philip was still there. The faint hint of his aftershave tickled her nose, the familiar little grunt when he swallowed coming every minute or two, all of it eclipsed by an unspoken reassurance slowly earned over the course of twenty years together--a certainty that no force on earth would’ve compelled him to leave her side. She licked her lips, throat sore and scratchy.

"Philip."

Her fingers barely skittered an inch across the blankets before they were captured.

"Shh-shh." He straightened and flashed a quick smile, absently rubbing the back of her knuckles.

She blinked to clear her eyes, staring into his face even as he continued to study her hand. The room was cold and dimly lit, the hand cradling hers calloused and warm, drawing the softest strokes over the edge of her thumb as if he would've held vigil at her side until the end of time. She started to speak.

_Come home_.

The words froze in her throat, some echo of fear and wrongness choking them back. Gripping his fingers, she steeled herself and took the breath that had been twenty years coming, pushing past uncertainty and trepidation just long enough to set them free.

"Vernis k'nam."

His eyes flicked to hers. For a moment neither of them moved. She swallowed again, heart threatening to pound out of her chest. Finally shifting in the chair, he drew their linked hands to his lone one and raised her third finger to his lips, eyes locked with hers in a silent answer.

 

* * *

 

"I'll be fine."

She whispered the empty promise to his back with a hint of fond exasperation in her voice and without needing to question what it was he was thinking, the hoarse note at its end less than comforting. Staring out at the dark, empty gravel road, he allowed the curtain to sway back into place and turned from the window.

There wasn't much to the room. A twin bed with a faded quilt. The small utilitarian table and lamp at its side. A straight-backed wooden chair resting in the corner. Elizabeth was propped on a single pillow, hair spilling loose and straight over one shoulder, looking smaller and frailer than he could ever remember seeing her. Swallowing when their eyes met, Philip pulled the chair over to the bed.

She reached for his hand as soon as he sat down. He let her take it, slowly turned hers over in both of his, toyed with her fingers and noted she'd been biting her nails again.

"Kids'll be happy." Pausing to clear her throat, she glanced up and forced a smile. "You know, when you tell them."

He nodded, not saying anything, unable to help catching the pained note in her voice, that they'd announced the separation together, and that she'd shouldered much of the blame, had been the recipient of their sour attitudes for a solid month, and now wouldn't get to be there to see the happiness in Paige and Henry's eyes when they found out they would all be back together again, would miss out on the gleeful hugs and spontaneous kisses they’d withheld out of spite and instead have to wait alone in a small cabin hundreds of miles away for her injury to heal.

Chewing on her bottom lip for a second, Elizabeth fiddled with his thumb, twice starting to speak and stopping before shaking her head. "Guess you have to hurry back so you can see Martha--"

Philip blew out his breath, cutting her off.

_"Don't."_

She bit her lip, eyes growing a little teary, and he lowered his head in frustration. The room fell silent, the sound of an owl hooting in the distance causing both of them to flinch. He grunted.

_They were shit with words. Hopeless at mushy. Great at blowing things up_.

Her fingertips began to skim across the back of his hand after a minute. Allowing it, he rubbed her knuckles without looking up. Fingers sliding to his wrist, she gave it a tug.

"C'mere."

He raised an eyebrow.

Lip quirking when he still didn't move, she inclined her chin. "I wanna tell you something."

"That right?" He narrowed his eyes, failing to entirely hide a smile when she mirrored the expression.

Careful not to jostle the bed, he leaned over. She curled fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, the motion lazy and familiar, slowly unknotting something deep in his gut. Their lips made contact shyly at first, easing back together. She tugged softly at his ear when he pulled away, eyes glassy and smile wavering.

"Philip--"

He bent to press his lips to her forehead and stroked fingers gently through her hair. "Shh-shh. I know." Capturing her thumb for another kiss, he tried to make a funny face. "We're gonna talk once a week. It's gonna fly by and you'll be home again before you know it."

She nodded and wiped her cheeks. Philip stared down at her, finally hooking his head towards the other room.

"We gotta get going if I'm gonna make the train."

They kissed one more time. Smoothing the hair off her forehead, he rose and moved the chair to the corner. Elizabeth fingered the edge of the quilt.

"Tell Henry and Paige," she hesitated, voice wavering again, "that I love them. _So_ much."

He paused in the doorway, quietly nodding.

The ride in to the train station was silent but for the dull chatter of the radio, few cars out on the road at that time of morning and neither of them much in the mood for talking. Abigail pulled into a space and killed the engine, cutting off the sound of the weather report halfway through. Unfazed, he stared out at the long, empty stretch of tracks, making no move to reach for the door.

Some part of him knew she would never have been cleared by the Centre to act as Elizabeth's caretaker if there was any question, such reassurances making it no easier to leave her there, alone and defenseless, with someone he’d met scarcely an hour before.

After a moment Abigail looked over, unsmiling, clearly holding no illusions who he was or of what he was capable. Taking a breath, he bent to grab the duffel and addressed her in a low voice.

"Take care of her."

The truck rumbled to life, a quick nod through the windshield their last exchange before he headed inside to buy a ticket home.

* * *

_"Dad."_

Hauling Henry into a bear hug, he gave him a squeeze and mussed his hair, opening one arm to make room for Paige.

"Is Mom back too?" Henry mumbled it against his shirt, dodging out of the way when Paige tried to comb fingers through his bangs.

"She has to stay a little longer . . . help Aunt Helen." He planted a quick kiss on each of their heads and pulled back. "Now go grab your stuff so we can get out of the Beeman’s hair." Shaking his head at Sandra once they hurried up the stairs, he spoke in a quieter voice. "Thank you _so_ much for stepping in to watch them like that--"

She smiled and waved a hand. "They were no trouble. Paige even helped with the dishes."

"--I don't know what Elizabeth and I would've done without you and Stan to pitch in." Philip frowned a little and peered over her shoulder towards the kitchen. "Is, uh, Stan here? I feel like I should thank him too."

The answer danced in the sudden dart her eyes made towards the right and in the second of nervous hesitation where her mouth opened and closed.

"Actually, no." The warm smile this time slightly forced, Sandra stuck one hand in her pocket and shrugged. "Some big case. You know Stan. He's been working on it round the clock."

"Yeah, sure." Philip nodded and crossed his arms, peering up the staircase as if to check on the kids. "Hope it's nothing too serious. Elizabeth and I have been so out of touch the last few days we've barely even glanced at the paper."

Sandra tucked a wisp of hair back. "How is her aunt doing?"

“You know, she’s--”

He turned to see Henry come bounding down the stairs with his backpack unzipped and his pajamas hanging halfway out. Sandra waved him off with an understanding parental smile when he wrinkled his nose and reached down to finish cramming everything inside.

"What do you two say to Mrs. Beeman?"

Five minutes later they were crowding in the front door, Henry immediately letting out a giant groan and dropping his backpack on the floor.

"Hey, c’mon." Shooting him a look, Philip pulled off his jacket and pointed at the backpack. “Pick it up.”

"I know, I know." Henry hooked a finger through one strap, dragged it over to the kitchen counter and rubbed his nose. "It just feels so good to be _home_."

"Sure does, huh?" He glanced over to where Paige stood by the table, arms crossed and brow slightly furrowed. "So what sounds good for dinner? You guys want pizza tonight, or--?"

"How long will Mom be gone?" Her first words since leaving the Beeman's, they were delivered quietly. She stared up at him, not smiling. "And why didn't _she_ call?"

He slowly nodded. "Well, sweetheart, Aunt Helen is _really_ sick. And you know how Mom can get kinda _intense_ when she's worried about something." Shrugging, he reached into the cabinet for a glass. "I'm sure she'll call as soon as she gets a chance to drive into town. Aunt Helen's phone is out of service."

Henry rapped fingers impatiently on the counter. "Can we get pepperoni?"

"You betcha . . . pepperoni, black olives, Canadian bacon--?" He raised an eyebrow at Paige.

She stuck both hands in her pockets, bearing a wary expression that looked remarkably like her mother’s. "Just cheese on my side."

"You got it." He winked and went to the message board for the coupon sheet.

"So you're gonna stay with us until she's back?"

"Yep." He frowned and pawed through the stack of old notes and clippings, eventually locating an expired coupon with the phone number.

Not quite as easily distracted as Henry, Paige leaned against the counter. "And then, what, just move back to the apartment?"

Pausing halfway through dialing the call, Philip shrugged. "Actually . . . Mom and I had a chance to talk about that too."

Her eyebrows lifted cautiously at first, mouth spreading into a disbelieving smile. "Really?"

"You mean you're staying?" Henry asked hopefully, face lighting up when he grinned.

They rushed towards him in a flurry of arms and elbows, overbalancing him back against the counter just as someone picked up at the pizza place.

"Yes, hello, I need to place an order." Giving them both a squeeze, he disentangled himself with a nod towards the stairs and mouthed, ‘ _Go put your stuff away.’_ Henry grinned again. "Yup . . . mmm-hmm. Let's go with a large. Pepperoni and--"

He caught sight of Paige's profile at the curve of the stairs. Face clouded with something close to uncertainty, it was hard to miss the second of hesitation before she shook her head, flashed him a quick smile and hurried up to her room.

 

* * *

 

  _"Mom,"_ Paige burst out over the phone and immediately lowered her voice. "I miss you."

The pained note at the end brought with it a rush of loneliness and warmth. Pressing one hand over her mouth to steady the quavering, Elizabeth scooted up on the pillow and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table.

"Miss you too." She kept her hand steady and took a careful sip in the pause that followed. "How are things at home?"

"I'm _so_ sick of pizza."

Elizabeth closed her eyes, swallowed, and carefully set the water glass next to the pale orange oblong painkiller she didn't dare try to take until they were off the phone. "Mm-hmm."

"Abby came over _three times_ last week." Paige made a derisive sound under her breath. "And all she does is sit on the couch all night, watch TV with Henry, and paint her nails."

“Wow . . . _three_ times.” The image that formed of _Clark_ with Martha twisted something in her gut. A punishing spike of pain quickly followed, causing tiny beads of perspiration to break out on her forehead. She took a breath and focused on counting the slats of the rough wood ceiling until it passed, fighting to keep the strain from her voice. "Dad must’ve had . . . a lot of meetings--"

"When are you coming home?" Paige demanded, the question stripping away all pretense of niceties.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. "Aunt Helen is doing a little worse this week."

For what seemed an eternity there was silence on the other end of the line.

"Is she . . . going to die?"

"The doctors don't think so," Elizabeth answered evenly, folding down the edge of the quilt. "But it is serious. She has--are you sure it won't upset you to hear this?"

"Yes," Paige blurted, quickly amending her response. "I mean, no, it won't."

"Good." Three hundred and fifty miles away, Elizabeth allowed the briefest of smiles. "You know Aunt Helen was injured when she fell and now she's developed an infection. It may take her some time to fight it off and until she does, her body can't finish healing."

There was a long silence.

"Mom . . . I understand why you can't leave Aunt Helen . . . but couldn't _we_ come visit _you_?" Paige rushed ahead when she started to protest. "Dad said it's a long way to drive and we’re too busy this weekend, but I just miss you so much--"

"No, it's not just that." Elizabeth dried one clammy palm on the sheet and waited the necessary beat, the act of doing so making it no easier to continue. "It's the risk of further infection. Aunt Helen is too weak right now. If you or Henry had picked up a bug from one of your classmates at school, in her condition," she paused, voice growing more serious, "Paige, do you understand how dangerous it could be for her?"

The silence brought with it a strange mixture of guilt and relief, knowing it was an argument for which there was no counter, the act of lying over and over again the harder Paige insisted she wanted the truth shredding her insides worse than any bullet ever could have.

"Yes," Paige finally answered.

Chest compressed so tight it ached, Elizabeth forced herself to plunge ahead. "You could pass along something to her in her weakened state without ever having gotten sick yourselves." She twisted the phone cord around one finger. "We didn't want to worry either of you, especially Henry, since he's younger, but you’re old enough to understand that sometimes responsibility means doing what needs to be done, whether or not you feel like doing it. And right now Aunt Helen needs me."

There was another weighted silence, one where she couldn't be sure if the words were sinking in or arousing further suspicion. But after a long moment, Paige cleared her throat.

"All right." She fidgeted with the receiver for a few seconds, and then mumbled, "Dad wants to talk to you."

"Goodnight." Elizabeth closed her eyes and bit the end of her thumb, waiting while the phone changed hands.

"Hey." Philip’s voice curled around her ear, low and a little gravelly, causing a fond, lonely twinge in her stomach. "How's Aunt Helen?"

She traced the worn edge of the quilt with one finger, debating how much it was safe to say. "Little infection. They've . . . got her on another round of antibiotics."

The silence that followed was punctuated by tight breathing. She sighed, practically able to picture his brow furrowing in concern. Philip finally swallowed.

"Doctor think it looks serious?"

Elizabeth toyed with the quilt for a few seconds, choosing her words carefully. "He said this was expected after her sort of injury. Didn't seem too worried." Closing her eyes, she changed the subject. "You sound tired."

He grunted. "Yeah . . . well. There’s been a lot going on."

Trailing off with no further attempt to elaborate, he allowed the line to fall silent. She twisted the phone cord around one finger.

"Things been busy at work?"

He made a sound under his breath before answering. "'Bout the usual."

"Paige said that you'd uh," nodding, she forced a lightness into her tone that felt anything but genuine, "had a lot of late meetings."

There was a long pause.

"Yep."

For a minute there was nothing but the sound of tense breathing, the conversation neither one they could safely have over the phone nor one that had ever particularly been needed face to face, evenings spent attending to _'late meetings'_ in the past never having stirred any sort of reaction one way or the other.

Ashamed when tears began pricking at her eyes, she frowned and squeezed them shut, keeping her voice crisp and unaffected. "I um . . . I should probably go. She needs to take her medicine and . . . you know."

Halfway hoping he would protest them ending the call so soon, she bit her lip, the line remaining silent but for a low mutter she knew all too well.

"Yeah."

Blinking back tears, she stared up at the ceiling. "So I'll call again next week?"

"Sure." Philip cleared his throat, after a long pause, finally mumbling, "Bye."

 

* * *

 

The change in her breathing became apparent the moment he gingerly disentangled from her sweaty embrace and started to collect his clothes.

First she let out a loud sigh that could, under better circumstances, be construed as one of satisfaction, the fact he was clearly getting ready to leave _again_ putting an immediate damper on things. When he didn't take the hint, Martha sat up in bed and tossed a hand through her hair, teasing it up to spill wildly over her shoulders in an obvious effort to look alluring.

_"Clark,"_ practically purring it, she bit her bottom lip and waggled an eyebrow, "come back to bed." She rose on all fours nude and swayed her hips as she crawled over to his side, voice dropping. "I'll let you have your way with me."

Pants already zipped and safely hiding exactly how appealing the idea of another round _didn't_ sound, he kept the answer artificially light, making no move to stop buttoning his shirt.

"Wish I could."

The second sigh was much more pointed. Throwing the covers back, Martha snatched her new silk robe off the end of the bed and knotted it with an angry yank. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched in the mirror as she crossed her arms, jutted out her jaw and began tapping freshly lacquered nails, clearly intent on launching into him the instant he finished dressing.

He made a quick check of his watch before turning, noting it was nearly ten.

_Shit_.

Favoring her with a smile, he kept his voice disarmingly affectionate.

"Martha--"

"Don't start with me, Clark." Bottom lip quivering in a clear attempt to draw more sympathy than her earlier reactions to his premature departures had garnered, her nostrils had the angry white flare of a bull preparing to charge. "You're leaving _again_ , just like you have every night for the past month. We haven't spent a full night together since our wedding."

"I know and you've been," taking her by the arms, he drew her close enough for their foreheads to touch, " _amazing_ about that. Really, Martha, I can't imagine anyone else who could ever really . . . _understand_ me like you do, understand why no matter _how much_ I need to be with you right now, with what happened last month and my job being on the line--"

He watched her face fall even before she yanked her hand away and knotted her robe tighter.

"It's always your _job_ , Clark." Lips twisting sourly as if she’d bitten into a lemon, it was the hurt in her eyes that was of a more pressing concern. "When are _you and I_ going to come first? We’re _married_ now."

Sighing, he took her hand again, forcing all impatience from his voice. "Martha, you knew when I called tonight that I couldn't stay. I told you about the early meeting tomorrow that I haven't even _started_ preparing for." Not giving her time to start arguing again, he pulled her into his arms and crushed her mouth under his, forcefulness standing in place of passion as she squeaked in surprise and allowed her arms to creep up his back. He held the kiss an extra beat to be sure, and then pulled away, staring into her eyes. "I _had_ to see you. Even if it was only for a few hours."

As much breathless as mollified, Martha faltered and pouted her lip out, batting her eyelashes with a hopeful, girlish smile. "So you'll stay next time?"

Grimacing, he managed at the last second to contort the expression into a crooked half-shrug. "I can't _wait_ to be done sorting through this mess at work so I can wake up next to you, bring you breakfast in bed, buttered toast cut into little triangles like you like it, bacon and orange juice . . ."

Trailing off when Martha leaned in, he reluctantly gave her one last peck and reached for his jacket. "You'll let me know if you hear anything?"

Martha propped one thick arm seductively on the door jamb and pursed her lips like the cat that ate the canary. "From what I hear, there won't be much more to hear."

Frowning quizzically, he cocked his head. She ran her tongue over her teeth as he slowly came closer, glancing around like she worried there might be a spy hiding in her apartment before turning to him and lowering her voice to a whisper.

"The case everyone's been working so hard on?" She arched one over-plucked eyebrow and reached up to straighten his tie, pausing to make sure she had his full attention. "Apparently one of them died and the other got sent back home."

He let his brow crease with an appropriate measure of shock. "Martha, how did you--?"

"I overhear things while straightening up at the end of the day." Smiling, she twined both arms possessively around his middle. "Don’t you worry, hon. This is all going to be over soon and then things will get back to normal for us."

Awkwardly returning one last kiss, he carefully pried himself free and slipped out the door, shuddering slightly as he hurried down to Clark's car.

* * *

It was almost eleven by the time he unlocked the front door, the sound of laughter and voices drifting in from the living room.

_"Dad,_ you’re back. _"_ Padding around the corner in pajamas and house slippers, Paige bit her lip and whispered, "Mom called a little while ago. She said--"

"Why aren't you in bed?"

Her smile disappeared. Fingers twisting nervously in front of her, Paige shrugged. "I couldn't sleep. And then Abby said it would be okay, just this once, if I watched a little more--"

"You know the rules." Philip nodded towards the stairs. “Go to your room.”

The room grew very still. Cheeks burning, Paige let out an embarrassed huff and hurried past him, Abby awkwardly scrambling to turn off the TV and grab her purse off the couch without meeting his eye. He shook his head and forced his jaw to unclench, picturing the dark look Elizabeth would've thrown surely as if she stood in the room.

Taking a breath, he pulled out his wallet and flashed a tight smile. "Thanks again for coming out on such short notice."

Abby's eyes widened as she accepted the bills.

"Um, I think this is too much--"

Philip waved a hand and ushered her towards the door. "I insist. Like I said, you came over at the last minute, and I know Henry can sometimes be a handful--"

"Look, it’s none of my business, but she's been having trouble sleeping for weeks." Sliding into her coat, Abby snapped her gum and hooked her head towards Paige's room. "Said she misses her mom and you've had to work a lot. I told her she could come downstairs with me for a little while. I'm the one you should be upset with, not her."

Frowning, Philip quickly nodded. "Sure . . . sure, no, thanks for letting me know. Elizabeth and I just want to make sure that they both stick to a familiar routine through all of this." Forcing a smile, he reached for the door. "Have a good night."

Paige didn't answer when he knocked a few minutes later, turning her back to the door and pulling the covers up to her chin, shoulders hunched and angry.

Not reacting, he took a seat on the edge of her bed and picked up Mr. Bear. "So how's Mom doing?"

Ignoring him for the better part of a minute, she finally sighed and flipped over, folding her arms across her chest.

"Fine." A beat passed before she shrugged. "We told her you were working late."

_Great._

"She say how Aunt Helen was?" Yawning, he rubbed his eyes.

Paige fiddled with the edge of the blanket. "The same." She swallowed, but didn’t look up. "I asked if she thought she could come home soon, but she said not for a little while longer."

He studied her face, not failing to catch the bitter note at the end.

"And?"

Mouth stubbornly set, she didn't answer right away, cheeks gradually picking up color like a teakettle set to explode from the pressure.

"And I don't understand how she can just _stay away_ this long like it's nothing," Paige burst out after a moment, quickly lowering her voice when he frowned and hooked his head towards Henry's room. "It's like she doesn't even _miss_ us."

"Paige, look at me." Philip waited until she reluctantly turned. "Your mother loves you _so much_. Believe me, she misses you and is thinking about you every second--"

"Then why won't she just come home?" Paige demanded, charging ahead before he could respond. "She says she misses us, but if that was really true, if Aunt Helen was _really_ so important to her that she would stay away this long, then why don't we ever see her? If she's so important for Mom to be gone a whole _month_ why does she send a card for my birthday every year but never, not even once, come to one of my parties? Why haven't Henry and I ever gotten to meet her when she’s our _only_ living relative?"

_Shit._

Lowering his head, he blew out a breath. "It's . . . complicated."

Paige folded her arms and simply waited.

Waiting a beat, he glanced up at her, the lie that formed effortlessly as all the others had over the years this time somehow the slightest bit harder to force out.

"There are some things you aren't old enough to understand yet about Aunt Helen," taking in her dubious frown, he continued in a quieter voice, "and . . . I think maybe Mom wishes now that we _had_ visited more when she was healthier. Maybe she's trying to make up for that now, you know?"

"Maybe." The reply was laced with stubbornness, but lacked for the same anger.

He hid a smile and cleared his throat, trying a different tactic. "You . . . remember a few years ago when everyone but Mom came down with that stomach bug?"

Paige groaned and made a face. "Ugh. I was _so_ sick."

"Yeah." He shook his head. "We were all three pretty gross." Waiting a beat, he wrinkled his nose. "Mom took awfully good care of us, though."

Paige bit her lip. "Whenever I rolled over at night it seemed like her hand found my forehead in the dark. It was like she was always hovering close by just in case I got sick again and needed her."

"That's Mom, huh?" Winking, he rose from her bed. "Sometimes words aren't the easiest thing for her, but I remember every single time I came out of the bathroom, somebody had magically refilled my mug of tea and left warm chicken noodle soup or a little plate of crackers on the nightstand."

He paused at the door, waiting until he caught Paige trying to conceal a smile. "Love you."

"I love you too, Dad."

Shutting her door quietly, he checked on Henry and made his way to the bedroom at the end of the hall, the nightstand empty but for the phone, Abigail's number there on his fingertips tempting him to dial, an action as likely to get him chewed out for the carelessness of it once she got home as hugged for the relief of hearing his voice.

They had agreed in advance--one call per week that she would dial, explaining to the kids that Aunt Helen's phone was out of service so she could only intermittently ask to borrow the neighbor's. Emergency contact would go through George.

Sinking onto the bed, he let his shoulders sag and ran a tired hand through his hair.

 

* * *

 

"You won't be gone too long?"

Pausing at the door, Elizabeth cautiously lifted a hand to extricate her hair from her jacket and flashed something faintly reminiscent of a smile back to where Abigail sat reading by the window.

The older woman peered at her over the top of her glasses. "Radio says we're expecting rain."

Elizabeth inclined her chin and pushed the screen door open. "I'll keep an eye on the weather." Smiling again, she stepped out onto the porch and let the door swing shut. "Be back in time to help you make dinner."

The crunch of leaves was shockingly loud in an otherwise quiet forest. The area of upstate New York sparsely populated, Abigail's closest neighbor was a reclusive man who lived two miles to the west. She was easy to get along with--quiet, modest, and satisfied with simple things. Having announced on the first night there was no television set in the house, her caretaker asked if she wanted to look through her books or just listen to the radio, the two of them quickly settling into any easy rhythm of quiet evenings that couldn't help but stir fond memories of home.

Coming up to a fallen log in her path, Elizabeth took a breath and carefully stepped over it. After six weeks, there was still a slight pull in the right side of her abdomen, but nothing more as long as she remembered to take things slowly, not overexert.

She made her way towards the lake at a cautious pace, searching out a good place to sit. Finally locating a large, mossy boulder with a reasonably flat surface, she lowered herself gingerly and exhaled, taking a moment to look out at the water.

There had been a camping trip, only one, at Philip's insistence once Paige and Henry were old enough. Convinced it would be a great family adventure, he packed the kids into the car with a borrowed tent from the neighbors and newly purchased sleeping bags for all four of them, shepherding Henry and Paige through the aisles of the grocery store as they shopped for hotdogs and marshmallows to roast by the fire and teaching them to pitch the tent while she got their supplies organized. Managing to get Paige to stop worrying about bugs and Henry to quit deviously sneaking leaves and pinecones over her shoulder for all of a minute, he huddled them all together on a boulder not dissimilar to the one she now sat on, pulling out his camera to snap a picture as if providing photographic evidence how much fun everyone was having might prove his point there was nothing wrong with the way their kids were turning out despite _where_ they were being raised.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and touched the side of her mouth, remembering the expression on his face when it started to rain just before dinner, the kids’ resulting whines to go home proving the point voiced in the countless warnings he’d stubbornly ignored. That they were _soft_. Weak as all their American classmates who'd grown up on sugary cereal and lazy mornings filled with cartoons and nothing of substance. Unable to handle a few minutes of being damp without complaining when she would’ve sought to earn her mother’s approval by quietly helping move supplies to the tent at _half_ Henry’s age. That they were growing up _nothing_ like either of them.

She wrapped her arms around her elbows and took a long breath, after a moment reaching into her coat pocket for a pen and the postcard she'd slipped in there earlier.

_Dear everybody, I miss you guys so much!_

Biting her lip, she tapped the pen against her leg. Henry had been coaxed to the phone only reluctantly the last time, one word answers and noises indicating yes or no all that followed much past _'Hi, Mom.'_ Offering nothing when she gently asked if he was okay, it was the way Philip paused later before remarking he'd been 'a little off lately' that revealed everything he didn't want to burden her with.

_I can't wait to come home. Aunt Helen is doing a little bit better each day, but she's still having a very hard time._

She caught the flickers of doubt in Paige's voice, hints of wariness whenever she asked about the aunt who existed only in falsified letters and small, brightly-wrapped packages sent every year from Pennsylvania for her birthday, in stories so artfully woven through the earliest threads of her childhood that she might never think to question whether _Aunt Helen_ had ever really been there at all.

Elizabeth swallowed and gripped the pen tighter, hating that with every lie she would have no choice but to tell, the chasm between them would only widen. She stared out over the water, haunted by the outline of Paige's shoulders as she walked into the school for what could very well have been the last time they saw one another if Philip hadn't shown up when he had, risking his life to keep their family whole.

Twirling her ring absently, she stared down at the page, tears pricking her eyes at the image of her mother sitting alone in their apartment, bravely trying to work out what to say each year for the tapes, much as she was now, missing _her_ just as she did Henry and Paige.

_It's hard getting older and being all alone._

Sucking in a shallow breath, she covered her mouth with one hand, all the denials exchanged before her departure, all the reassurances _she_ herself would have given in that moment unable to overcome the weight of guilt leavened by inarguable truth.

Quickly swiping her cheeks when the wind began to pick up, Elizabeth cleared her throat and frowned at the postcard, hurriedly scribbling something about hoping they were all fine and seeing them soon, hesitation coming as she stared out at the water, reflections from thin breaks in the clouds mirroring a clear silvery blue that squeezed something deep in her chest.

_The first time we met, I saw you were disappointed._

Sucking in a shallow breath, she steadied the pen, Henry's mumbled one-word answers that failed to conceal how badly he needed her home, Paige's uncertainty as she combed through answers seeded with lies, dogged in her determination to seek the truth, and Philip's unwavering steadiness in holding them all together firmly at the forefront of her mind as she scrawled, _'Love, Mom'_ in the broadest loops the tight remaining space would allow.

The next breath she took somehow freer, she pulled the folded envelope with Helen's address from her jacket pocket and tucked the postcard inside.

 

* * *

 

"Okay, plates to the sink."

Wiping his mouth, Philip stood. Henry leaned across the table to grab one last piece of garlic bread and wolfed down a bite.

"Paige dried yesterday, so she's clearing and taking out the trash. Which means _you're_ ," grinning, he nudged Henry, "with me on dishes duty." He ignored the groans, everyone shuffling into place without too much protest. "So how was the spaghetti? Probably not as good as Mom's, but edible, right?"

Rolling her eyes, Paige reached for the salad bowl. "It was good."

Henry shrugged and twirled the dishtowel around like a matador's cape. "Totally edible." He accepted the first plate to dry without protest, chewing on his bottom lip with a slightly thoughtful expression. "Hey . . . Dad?"

"Hmm?"

Not allowing his face to twitch, Philip set the second plate on his side of the sink.

"You know Doug, from across the street?" Tone casual, Henry gave a little nod and set the plate down. "Guess what he got for Christmas last month?" He plowed ahead without waiting for an answer. _"Intellivision."_

Paige opened the refrigerator to put away the margarine, barely hiding a snort. Philip rinsed his wine glass and made a face.

"You don't say?"

Not missing his tone of voice, Henry let his shoulders slump dejectedly.

" _Everyone else_ has it. They were all talking about it when they got back from break. It's all anyone did and I'm the only one who's left out."

"Yeah all they did was sit around on their couches for two weeks and stare at the TV set, rotting their brains." Philip gave him a pointed look. "You're not getting it and that's the end of the discussion."

They all looked up when the phone rang.

"I'll get it," Paige announced, hurrying to finish straightening the placemats so she could run over to snatch the handset off the cradle on the third ring. "Hello? _Mom._ "

Henry whined under his breath, progress slowing to a crawl on a handful of spoons. "She got to talk first _last_ week."

"We're almost done here." Nudging him with an elbow, Philip raised an eyebrow and whispered, _"Hey."_

Henry looked up.

"When it's your turn, be sure to tell her about your science project. And that 'A' on the math test last week."

Twenty minutes later the kitchen was clean and the phone passed to his hand just before Henry bolted for his room.

"'Night, Dad."

"I'll be up in a minute." He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and called up the stairs, _"Brush your teeth."_

"Guess some things haven't changed." Even from three states away, it was impossible to miss the note of dry amusement.

"Not so much." Snorting, he shook his head. "So how's our favorite aunt?"

"Better. Much better." Elizabeth paused. "They think . . . another week, most likely, and then she should be stable enough to stay on her own."

He let out the breath he'd been holding. "Good. Kids'll be happy."

There was a pause, followed by an indignant little exhalation. And then, " _Just_ the kids?"

He laughed under his breath and rubbed his face, tired, but not enough to miss the flirtatiousness of the question. Checking the stairs one more time, he switched the phone to his other ear and leaned back against the counter.

_"No,"_ he murmured, matching her tone.

Another few seconds of silence passed. "You get my postcard?"

"Mm-hmm."

She made another sound when a minute passed and he added nothing further. "You're extra chatty tonight."

Shaking his head, he exhaled. "Sorry. I'm . . . tired, you know?"

Waiting a few seconds, she took a breath and then hesitated, the words quiet and still a bit uncertain when they finally formed.

"I miss you."

He swallowed, after a moment slowly nodding. "Yeah, me too."

"Philip, I--"

She started to say something, stopping short when he made a sound in response. Laughing a little nervously, she tapped fingernails against the phone.

"Nothing . . . it's nothing. I should . . . I should go."

He closed his eyes and gripped the edge of the counter. "Okay." Pausing, he fingered the receiver, hating to put it down. "Same time next week?"

"Yeah." Voice back to normal, she cleared her throat. "See ya."

He took a breath, forcing his head to clear. "Bye."

 

 


End file.
